


Lovely

by partly_conscious



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Relationship Problems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 72,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partly_conscious/pseuds/partly_conscious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romano feels like a toy. Spain feels like a punching bag. </p><p>The slightest hint of romantic love can bring out deeply hidden things that even hundreds of years of friendship and companionship have left untouched. Spain and Romano work through their issues in the most awkward way possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1: ROMANO
> 
> Spain Kisses Me For the First Time Ever, or, if you prefer, A Pasta-Flavored Octopus Sucks My Face. It is everything I ever wanted in life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for prolific swearing and deliberately gross kiss descriptions.

This was all I ever wanted in life.

Okay, so maybe that wasn't technically true, but you can excuse me for having that thought flash through my head the moment Spain pushed me back on the couch and kissed me.

I'll give you a moment to get over the shock.

It wasn't even a _gentle_  kiss, like a fucking first kiss is supposed to be, no- the asshole had to go and ravage me all over and practically eat my face. It took me a few seconds to realize what was going on, actually. I didn't even have any time to prepare, which meant he was probably tasting the pasta we had just eaten for lunch. Knowing him, though, he probably thought that was hot or something.

Idiot.

Why would I think that thought, you might ask? Well, because I could definitely taste _his_  lunch, and  _I_  didn't think it was hot. At all. You see, I hold the firm--and, I think, not unreasonable!-- opinion that no matter  _how_  good something tastes, you  _don't want to have it in your mouth_ twice.  _And_  he was using way too much tongue. I could barely even breathe. I guess the damn fool thought that my lack of response meant it was okay to go on kissing the fuck out of my face, but in reality I was just... temporarily in shock and unable to respond. You know, from being suddenly grabbed and French-kissed out of nowhere.

It wasn't sexy, or romantic, or anything. It wasn't even remotely enjoyable, actually. It was nothing like I thought a kiss from Spain would have been like. But even so, I couldn't help myself from thinking that  _thought_ \- that this slimy, sloppy kiss was all I ever wanted in life. I'd been waiting for the bastard to kiss me for _literal centuries_ , can you blame me? I mean, at least I knew he was interested. Not that I hadn't been positive before, but it was always nice to make sure.

You're probably wondering why I didn't make a move on him before, if I was so desperate to have him, right? Surely he couldn't be so oblivious that he would ignore my constant hints, whenever we were together, for hundreds of years? If somebody takes you out on a gondola in Venice, pays the gondolier an exorbitant amount of money to  _never speak of this to the Italian government on pain of death,_ and memorizes fifty-three lines of some dumb Spanish love poem to recite at random moments of the night, you'd think they'd get the hint, no?

Haha, well, about that--  

Let me give you a piece of personal advice; you shouldn't jump to conclusions when it comes to romance-- it can be quite dangerous. Or frustrating. Or both, in  _my_  case. But what can you do?-- I suppose some people are just born incurable knuckleheads. I mean, he was always showering me with affection, but he does that to everyone. I, on the other hand, have some damn self-respect. I wasn't going to go throwing myself all over his fucking  _manly_  chest and into his goddamn  _muscular, bronzed_  arms if he wasn't ever going to acknowledge my efforts to engage him in intelligent, sophisticated, _romantic_  conversation.

This may not have been the most logically-planned-out way to woo someone. Thus, the years and years of UST. But anyway!-- I'm getting off track.

You probably want to hear all the dirty little details about our spitfully amazing first kiss.

Okay, here goes: after he slobbered all over me for a few seconds, I finally came to my fucking senses and realized what was going on. Just in case the stupid numbskull thought I wasn't interested, I pressed back up against him and bit his lip gently. He grabbed my waist and tilted his head, and we sort of fell sideways and broke apart.

Right,  _that_  was probably a gigantic letdown. I never promised to be a good writer, all right? Let's just say that it was a goddamn, bitchin', slob-tastic first kiss and move on, because that's not really the interesting part of the story at all.

Punching him in the face felt better than kissing him, honestly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have some spamano working through their relationship issues B)  
> idk when i'll be able to update this thing but i'll shoot for once every few weeks! chapter length will vary, this first one is on the short side
> 
> DISCLAIMER: hidekaz himaruya is the creator of aph and i make no money off of this drivel
> 
> thanks for reading!


	2. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 2: ROMANO  
> A Near Crisis Is Averted, and I’m Not Sure if It Should Have Been

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for swearing and sexual situation. (Nothing happens except a pretty steamy kiss)

_Some_ people might call me weak in _some_ aspects, but nobody can argue that I don’t throw a fucking mean punch. Spain yelped and toppled over backwards, hitting his head hard on the floor, but immediately scrambled upright. For a second I thought he was going to be all annoying about it, but he looked really serious-- or at least as serious as he could look, with a bruise starting to puff up his left cheek.

“I’m sorry, Lovi!” he wailed.

“You should be sorry!” I snapped at him. “You don’t just-- just kiss people without their permission first, you ass! Did you learn all your manners from Francis?!”

Spain looked contrite. I thought he was going to keep his mouth shut, but instead he looked away and muttered, “Was that… was that okay?” It took me a second to realize that he was talking about the kiss.

Instantly, I felt a surge of pity for him. The poor guy actually looked really scared, like he was worried he made me mad-- not exactly an unfounded fear, given that I had just slugged him in the face, but… well... it’s just that they’re pretty rare, times when Spain’s actually affected by something I say-- most of the time, it’s like he just brushes it off as _Lovino being overly sensitive again._ Just because I complain about a lot of things doesn’t mean that all of those complaints aren’t important!

But, although I really, really wanted to stay mad at him-- while I was mad, I couldn’t be _horribly, completely embarrassed,_ after all-- I couldn’t. I felt bad for criticizing his kissing skills in my head. It wasn’t… it wasn’t _that_ bad. And it was a kiss from _Spain_ , who was, after all, _amazingly hot and popular_ and who could have chosen any of his _amazingly hot and popular friends_ to kiss instead of, well, _me_. And did I mention the part about having an embarrassing secret crush on him for a hundred years?

“Y-yeah!” I said, before I could even think about it. “It was _fine_ , all right? B-but just… don’t do it again-- without, without asking first!” Which, I know, was sort of a weird thing to say about a kiss, but obviously I wasn’t thinking straight at the moment.

Spain’s face brightened up so quickly it almost blinded me. “Aw, Lovi, I knew you felt the same way!” he chirped, practically bouncing back onto the couch and beaming at me. The bastard had an amazing smile, even with a huge bruise on one side of his face. I had to work really hard to stop from smiling back.

“Don’t go getting all puffed up about it,” I said instead, trying to act all cool and detached. He leaned in close to me, so close that our noses touched. I felt my cheeks burn.

“Can I kiss you again?” he said, grinning at me, which was -- well, it was kind of weird, even though I’d told him I wanted him to ask first just a few seconds ago. I guess I was kind of used to having people kiss me without asking, in a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. But it was nice-- him just _doing what I asked him to_ for once in his sorry life, I mean.

“Yeah,” I said again, because there was really no clever way to reply to a question like that, and closed my eyes.

The second time was a lot slower and softer. His arms looped around my waist, and then the logical thing to do seemed to be placing my hands on his shoulders and leaning into him a little. He felt warm under my palms, and I wondered if my hands felt cold against his body, but then he was leaning in and drawing me further into the kiss.  _Now, this is more like it._ His lips parted slightly as he tipped his head, and his teeth snagged mine for a second-- my breath caught-- before nipping my lower lip. A weird tingle raced down my spine as I pressed my lips to the corner of his, feeling them curve up in a smile. I felt his hands shifting on my back. My heart did several rather impressive acrobatic moves inside my chest.

_Oh._

We pulled apart for a second, just long enough for me to want more, and then brushed back together. I opened my eyes for a moment, but looking at his face while I was kissing him was too weird.

“Ah-- Lovi--” Spain muttered breathlessly, pulling away slightly, but I ignored him. I shifted the position of my hands on his shoulders and pushed him back onto the couch, pulling one leg over his waist and smirking down at him. Our faces were so close together that I could see the light dew of sweat on the bridge of his nose. His hand found my elbow and guided it to his chest as we crashed back together.

“Does this mean-- you like me?” he asked in between kisses, his teeth dragging across my skin as he whispered close to my ear. The skin on my cheek felt damp as I twisted to look at him.

“Are you-- fucking-- _mad_?” I snapped, my fingers tightening on his arm. “No, idiot Spagna, I _hate_ you.”

He drew away for a second and looked at me, his eyes wide and puzzled. His pupils were dilated; his eyes were very slightly crossed as he tried to focus on my face.

“You hate me?” he asked in a slightly betrayed voice. I suppose it wasn’t really fair of me to be annoyed-- it _is_ rather hard to convey sarcasm when all the air in your lungs is gone and you’re breathing like you just ran a marathon-- but instead of answering his question, I shut him up with another kiss.

“I _hate_ you,” I repeated the next time we broke apart, staring down at his horribly naive expression. “I’m just here kissing you--” he nipped my earlobe, and I wondered if he was even listening to the answer to his question-- “kissing you senseless-- on your fucking couch-- in your _fucking_ house, because I _hate_ you so much--”

“Oh, Lovi!” he trilled straight in my ear, making me shudder and turn my neck to kiss him full-on. “You were being _sarcastic_!”

For a second time, I felt bad. I should have known he wouldn’t get a joke like that. Spain has a very one-track mind, and --I don’t mind bragging-- I have some pretty distracting kissing skills, if I do say so myself.

“Right,” I muttered, and focused on capturing his lips in a proper kiss, holding him down when he tried to twist away and kiss the tip of my nose. After a few seconds, he relaxed, and I felt his arms move. Before I realized, he was tipping us over the edge of the couch.

“You’ll break my back, dipshit!” I screamed, twisting away from him, but he landed lightly on his feet like a cat and caught me, lowering me gently down the last few inches to the floor. Before I had time to say anything else, he pressed his lips fiercely to mine in a sloppy, fiery kiss.

All the bones in my legs melted as I grabbed at the front of his shirt, dragging him down closer to me. It was a good thing he was wearing a loose-necked shirt, because neither of us were being gentle anymore. He moved so that he was practically resting on top of me, doing this thing with his lips that I don’t know how to describe that made me clutch the fabric of his shirt so hard I felt my own fingernails dig into my palms. When we broke apart again, his breath was hot and labored, making my face feel damp and sticky.

I tried to say something, smile up at him, but all of a sudden we were moving again, so quickly I wasn’t sure if I was keeping up. His knees knocked carelessly against mine as one hand worked to unbutton my shirt-- too quickly, without even looking, I realized, for him not to have practiced the motion many times over. His fingers tickled as they traveled down my chest, lingering at the last button down. There were no sounds in the world except for our heavy-- _too heavy_ \-- breathing, and the rustling of clothes.

I twisted away sharply, pulling myself halfway upright as he almost toppled off of me. The tails of my unbuttoned shirt caught underneath me as I yanked myself into a sitting position against the couch, trying to catch my breath.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and quickly I tried to rearrange my face-- my mouth was hanging open. I glanced at him and wasn’t sure whether the expression on his face was frustration or anxiety. This time it was my ribcage that melted, sending rivulets of hot liquid coursing around my heart. I could feel blood thumping through my palms.

“Nothing-- just needed to catch my breath--” I lied, sneaking a glance at him and then quickly buttoning the top button of my shirt. I tried to make it seem like a casual gesture, but his eyes went to my hands right away, widening.

“You-- you don’t want to--” Spain hesitated, gesturing vaguely to the floor. I hadn’t thought it was possible, but I felt even more blood rushing to my face. He blushed as well, suddenly acting all shy, although just a few minutes ago he’d been pinning me to the floor. There was a long moment in which the blood slowly stopped pounding in my ears, leaving me feeling cold and empty and almost wishing I hadn’t stopped it when I had.

It wasn’t that I didn’t _want_ to. Hell, who _wouldn’t_ want to, when it’s _Spain_ \-- who’d probably had, incidentally, an unnaturally long time to get _really good_ at sex-- pretty much straight-out offering? I was more surprised than anything, really. Fifteen minutes ago, we had been friends. Ten minutes ago, we were kissing on the couch. One minute ago, he’d been ready to rip off my shirt. And I guess I just didn’t feel like things were progressing in a logical order.

It’s not that I’m some delicate, mistrustful flower. I can handle emotional pain, difficult relationships. You kind of have to get tough, being a nation, and knowing that your allies in the evening could become your enemies in the morning, and it would all happen behind your back. You have to learn not to take it too seriously, because you don’t want to be emotionally crippled the next time you have to ally with that person-- and you have to be ready to be the one abandoning them, too, if it comes to that. You get your heart broken, and you learn that sometimes it hurts more to break a heart than to be the one being broken, and then you learn to move on. That’s just life.

But this-- with Spain-- was different. Yeah, I thought he was sexy, and yeah, I knew he liked me, but there was still the fact that we’d just had our first kiss a few minutes ago. We’d never even gone on a romantic date. I didn’t know anything about what he wanted from me. If it had been anyone else, I’ll be honest-- I’d probably just be, like, _Fuck this,_ and decide to figure everything out later.

And yet I found myself thinking that I didn’t want my and Spain’s relationship to just be about sex. It would-- well, okay, it would hurt, if I did it with him and then he just ignored me afterwards. I know I just rambled on about how I wasn’t all emotional and delicate, but that doesn’t mean I was all, _I fear no pain!_ or anything, you know? It would be embarrassing to realize that he felt less for me than I did. I didn’t think I could just treat Spain like a quick fuck, either.

I was _in love_ with him. My God, that sounds horrible, like some kind of shitty romantic movie, but what else am I supposed to say?

“Lovi?” Spain said, again. I didn’t look at him. I buttoned another few buttons on my shirt and tried to will the blood in my cheeks to retreat.

“I just… don’t feel like it right now,” I lied, looking away. It probably wasn’t the best thing to say-- his face fell, and I realized that maybe that sounded like I wasn’t turned on or something-- but at that moment I honestly couldn’t think of anything else. “Uh… I’m tired.”

Now, usually I can count on Spain to be fairly oblivious, which means that I can lie to him about whatever and get away with it. But I guess for once I actually had his full attention, because there was an awkward silence for a few seconds and he didn’t look like he was falling for it.

“Ah-- Lovi, are you sure?” he asked, doubtfully, after a pause. “I mean, it’s not because--”

“ _No!”_ I yelled across him, 100% sure that I didn’t want to hear whatever it was he was going to say. “I’m just _tired,_ all right? So tired I could just _fall asleep_ right now! This, this has _absolutely nothing_ to do with the fact that you just _kissed me for the first time a fucking second ago,_ and that I have no idea what you even _mean_ by all this, and how confused I am! At all!”

_Shit._

I always fucking do that, you know. End up saying too much. I guess it’s handy that I hang around Spain a lot, because half the time he just looks confused and changes the subject. I can’t tell whether he’s just trying to spare me from the embarrassment, or he really doesn’t know what’s going on, which I wouldn’t blame him for. People tell me I should be more straightforward.

At any rate, to my enormous relief, that’s what happened this time too. Spain stared at me for a second and then shrugged, apparently reassured by something I’d said or done. While I’m sure I was still blushing like hell, he looked perfectly normal, as if the whole steamy, hot, fall-off-the-couch kiss had never even happened. I tried to wrap my head around it, but all of a sudden I couldn’t imagine leaning forward and kissing this innocent-faced person who had raised me. I wasn't sure if that could ever feel normal.

“Okay, Lovi! Are you very tired?” he chirped. “You can take a nap in my bed if you want, I don’t mind--”

“ _No!”_ I yelled again in a moment of panic. Okay, it’s not that I thought he was gonna molest me or something-- I was just really desperate to get out of there as soon as possible-- but _yes,_ I know how it sounded. Spain looked hurt again, and I scrambled to repair the damage. I had just gotten the situation to be not-awkward, dammit! “I mean, no, it’s fine… Feli will expect me home for dinner soon, probably!”

I pulled that one right out of my ass. I usually don’t come home in time for dinner with Feli. I’m a shitty brother. It’s not like he gets lonely or anything, though-- he’s got big, buff Mr. I Work Out to keep him company now, whether it’s over text or video chat or whatever. (I… I hate to _praise_ the man, but I have to admit that he’s got to have _nerves of fucking steel_ to be able to stand the constant waves of suffocating affection that come from associating oneself with my brother. Either that, or --gakk-- he’s really, _really_ in love.)

Spain fell for it again. I am truly a master of deception.

  
“Okay, Lovi! Have a safe trip home, all right?” He shuffled closer to me, but before he could do anything, I grabbed him in a kind of aggressive hug. I think he was surprised, but I couldn’t tell. I let go as fast as possible and backtracked out of his house before I thought to look at his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imo romano made the right choice here tbh  
> also just to make something clear-- in the previous chapter-- i don't think that hitting your friends or romantic partners is okay, and that's something i'm hoping to deal with in this fic as well! i don't think it's cute when romano headbutts or punches spain, even if spain doesn't get seriously hurt. 
> 
> hetalia does not belong to me!  
> thank you for reading c:


	3. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3: Romano  
> If I Had A Tomato For Every Time I Heard That, I’d Be A Fucking Marinara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a little alcohol

I got into my car and drove straight back to my house-- not the one in Rome, but the one I shared with Veneziano. Well, no, actually-- that’s not true. I made a small detour. Let’s just say I felt that I would need a little alcohol-based assistance to work through all the shit that’d happened today.

 

I opened the door quietly, trying not to let the bottle of wine clink against anything as I toed both of my shoes off. Now, the issue in question was whether the kitchen was safe to enter tonight. I was not going to make the same mistakes I’d made before. (I love my brother, I really do, despite anything I might say, but I will _never_ forgive him for doing _that_ with Germany in the middle of the living room.

 

I had to replace _all_ of the couches.)

 

Luckily, I heard nothing but Veneziano singing in the kitchen, so I hung up my coat and ventured into the living room. Germany was at the table, fully clothed, shuffling through a lot of dull-looking papers, while Veneziano was cooking and singing the fourth movement of Beethoven’s ninth symphony in perfect German. He interrupted himself to greet me.

 

“Lovi!” he chirped, kissing me once on each cheek and leaving smudges of tomato sauce on my face. “Sit down, dinner’s almost ready!” I put down the wine on the table and sat down across from Germany. He looked up and sort of gave me this nod of acknowledgement before looking back down at his papers. He was wearing these rectangular glasses that made him look like a nerdy college student, and he kept fiddling with them as he read.

 

Veneziano swept over to the table and plunked down a plate of chicken, plucking the sheaf of papers out from Germany’s grasp and tossing them carelessly down on a nearby counter.

 

“It’s time to eat! You can work later!” he admonished Germany, planting a light kiss on Germany’s forehead. It was only with great difficulty that I restrained a despairing groan. I had forgotten how embarrassingly affectionate those two were whenever they could manage to be in the same physical space at once. (Germany was always busy and took an active role in his government, which was a choice that some nations, including me and Veneziano, declined to make.) To his credit, Germany only blushed slightly as he took off his glasses and tucked them into the breast pocket of his shirt-- _nerd!_ \-- before giving Veneziano a small smile.

 

Germany hadn’t always been so comfortable with my brother’s particular brand of physical contact. I wondered if being around Veneziano for such a prolonged period had just gradually whittled down his barriers, or if they had perhaps consciously worked through it together. Suddenly, I found myself wondering how Veneziano and Germany solved their problems as a couple. Did they discuss issues that arose together? Did they just naturally adapt to each other? They always seemed to be in perfect harmony-- were they just completely suited to each other? Maybe the trick was to ignore everything you didn’t like, or get used to it?

 

This was highly unsettling. I had never before realized an interest in Germany and Veneziano’s relationship before, preferring to think of Germany as a kind of nuisance whom I had to tolerate because, despite everything, he made Feli so incredibly happy. Maybe it was because now I was in a relationship of my own? Or… at least, I thought it was a kind of relationship. What had those two kisses meant? After all, just a kiss didn’t necessarily mean we were dating. Or that we had any sort of a romantic thing at all. We hadn’t had a chance to talk about it or anything, since I had skedaddled right after the whole thing had happened. What if Spain gave up on me now? I mean, did it still count as a relationship if it had only existed for a day?

 

None of the other romances I’d been involved in-- ranging from one-night stands to affairs lasting up to a year-- had been this hard to figure. Maybe that was because I knew that I’d eventually have to leave those people (the perks of being practically immortal, folks!) This was different; this was a chance to have a lasting relationship with another nation, maybe the only nation that would ever show interest in me in that way. And I might have fucked it up before it could even get started. But surely he wouldn’t judge me on one incident alone? It wouldn’t even be worth dating him if he gave up on me already, right? How was I supposed to tell him that when he looked at me, I felt my heart beat faster? How was I supposed to tell him that sometimes I wished he would stop moving, so I could look at him and the way his hair curled for as long as I wanted?

 

My God, this was more complicated than I had thought. Never mind their relationship-- how had they even managed to confess their feelings for each other?

 

“Lovi?” asked Veneziano, and I realized I had been staring numbly off into space-- probably with an unsettling expression on my face, come to think of it. Even Germany was looking at me with faint concern. He was more intimidating without his glasses.

 

“What?” I snapped.

 

“We’re saying grace,” said Veneziano, unfazed. I looked down at the table and realized that, while I’d been deep in thought, Veneziano had already distributed plates of food to everyone. I quickly folded my hands and looked down, trying to banish all thoughts of stupid romantic problems from my mind for the duration of the prayer.

 

“Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord,” recited Veneziano. “Thank you for bringing Ludwig and Lovi to the table tonight, I was afraid I would have to eat alone… Amen.”

 

We all echoed “Amen,” before picking up our silverware. Veneziano immediately engaged Germany in a spirited discussion about the transition between the Classical and Romantic eras on the European music scene, so I returned to moodily picking at my food and thinking about Spain.

 

My misgivings about having sex with Spain suddenly felt small, petty, stupid. The important part had been to let him know that I felt the same way, and instead I had run away. It… it hadn’t been _that_ uncomfortable. Maybe if I’d just gone along with it, I would be cuddling with my crush in bed and exchanging deep, romantic confessions with him right now, instead of mooching off of my brother’s cooking skills and staring resentfully at him and his boyfriend laughing together about modern interpretations of Mozart. Oh, I knew it wasn’t Veneziano’s fault that I was a shitty conversationalist and too socially awkward to insert myself into anything I wasn’t forcibly dragged into. That didn’t stop me from resenting how good he was at charming people, saying exactly the right thing to make them feel better. How good he was at making them feel loved.

 

_Well, fuck._

Abruptly, I put my silverware down on the table and shoved my chair back, standing up. Germany and Veneziano looked up at me, startled, the smiles fading from their faces.

 

“I’m heading in for the night,” I said brusquely, taking my still-mostly-full plate and setting it next to the sink. It clattered morosely.

 

“What’s wrong, Lovi?” asked Veneziano anxiously. “Is the food bad?”

 

“The food’s fine,” I said reflexively. I had barely even tasted the food, but chances were it was impeccable. Feli’s food usually is, so it probably wasn’t even a lie. “I’m just ...tired today.” Yeah, I know. Reusing the same lame old excuse twice in a day. I’m the king of eloquence.

 

“Okay,” said Veneziano doubtfully, rising to clear up my plate. I let him do it. Sometimes I felt guilty for not helping out more around the house, but most of the time he seemed to genuinely enjoy doing chores and things for other people-- I wasn’t quite sure whether this was something to be concerned about or not-- so I left him to it, only pausing to grab the untouched bottle of wine on the counter before I headed for the stairs.

 

Their voices faded as I climbed upstairs, walking down the dark hallway without bothering to turn on the lights. I could imagine all the stiff old portraits Feli insisted on keeping on the walls so well I could see them without light. My bedroom was at the very end of the hall; I opened the door as quietly as I could, even though I knew Germany and Veneziano couldn’t hear anything I did up here.

 

I flicked on the dim lamp by my bed and sat down on the crisply made sheets. I hadn’t slept here in a few weeks, but all the surfaces were clean and dusted-- Veneziano’s work, no doubt. With a sigh, I laid down across the bed.

 

Everything was confusing. I thought once Spain knew I liked him, and I knew he liked me back, things would be simple. Aren’t things usually simple for people who are in love? I mean, not really, but the part about them being in love with each other is simple. It’s an anchor for them, amidst so many other things that give them pain. Their love is the one guiding light in their lives, the one thing they can count on.

 

Okay, yeah, that was horrible. But I was in a dramatic sort of mood. I guess I just hadn’t expected it to be so hard, to tell him how I felt and what I wanted and what I expected. I didn’t think that would be the hard part-- I thought fighting, or falling out of love, would be what drove us apart. If I couldn’t even make it through the first part of getting into a relationship, I was pretty much screwed, right? I mean, I’d seen some real romantic disasters out there over the course of my existence, but most of them could handle the whole “I kind of, like like you, go out with me?” phase. Not me, apparently.

 

I sat up and took a deep breath. _This is stupid,_ I told myself firmly. _You’re working yourself up over nothing. Why not wait longer than a few hours before assuming that the world is going to end?_ The thought didn’t make any of the anxious feelings in my gut go away, but focusing on a goal-- to hold out for a few days and see how Spain reacted-- was definitely steadying. Like a lot of people, I’m pretty sure that my emotions dictate my thoughts sometimes, and not the other way around. Sometimes it’s just hard to realize that-- you don’t expect your own mind to come up with things that don’t make sense, after all.

 

The day had been, ultimately, upsetting. I wouldn’t have expected that, given what had happened, but, I mean, we all take life as it comes. I picked a book from the well-stocked bookshelf Veneziano had set up and propped it up on the pillow, pretending to myself that I was reading it as I replayed the kiss I’d shared with Spain over and over in my head.

 

A little past midnight, I heard a knock on the door. I rolled over from my tangled-up position in the blankets, remembering to set the partly empty bottle of wine firmly on the bedside table before sitting up.

 

“Feli?”

 

“Ve, can I come in?” His voice was muffled from behind the door. I grunted an affirmative; the door swung open, and Veneziano snuck into the room. He was carrying a mug of something hot.

 

“Close the door behind you,” I said, although with no real heat. I knew that Germany must have gone home, if Veneziano was here with me. He treasured Germany’s visits; often, I found him asleep at the kitchen table or on the living room floor in the morning, because he insisted on staying with Germany as long as Germany would stay with him. They were both stupid, lovesick fools. If Germany really cared about my brother, he would quit his job-- which any other person could do in his stead-- and spend more time with Veneziano. It’s not like he, a nation, depended on the job to earn money.

 

Veneziano walked across the room and sat down lightly on the edge of my bed, tugging the covers away from my chest. I scowled at him. “What do you want?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew by now. I recognized the smell of what he had in that mug-- tomato soup.

 

Pappa al pomodoro was our comfort food, the food we made for each other when we were feeling down-- you know, that whole brotherly-affection, having each others’ backs thing. Okay, it was usually Veneziano who made it for me, given that I was the one infinitely more likely to go into a sulk and go around eating tomatoes straight out of the can for days.

 

“I just made you some soup,” replied Veneziano, which is what he always said, even though this meant that he’d noticed I was upset about something, which I hadn’t wanted.

 

“I don’t need your babying,” I told him, but I took the soup anyway.

 

“You barely ate at all tonight,” he said, all sympathy as he made himself comfortable on my bed and looked at me with those innocent golden eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong, Lovi!”

 

“Che! It’s nothing,” I muttered bad-temperedly, sipping at the soup. Veneziano noticed the bottle of wine sitting on the table and took a taste right out of the bottle before studying the label.

 

“Is it Antonio?” he asked perceptively. I groaned, taking the bottle out of his hand and putting it back on the nightstand. Trust him to blatantly show off his amazing skill of _knowing me way too fucking well_. On the other hand, maybe it was just that half the problems I had were about Spain in some way, shape, or form, and he’d got used to the pattern.

 

“So what if it is?” I replied mulishly, taking another sip of the soup and enjoying the familiar, warm taste. Okay, so maybe I already knew I’d end up spilling all my worries and fears to him while he patted me sympathetically on the back and told me he loved me no matter what, but that didn’t mean I was going to make it easy for him! I did have my pride.

 

“Did he ask you on a date?” asked Veneziano bluntly.

 

I snorted into the mug, making tomato-scented steam rise into my face in a puff. “More like _started forcibly making out with me for no apparent reason_.”

 

Veneziano didn’t seem to think this as terrible of a thing as I did.

 

“Ve, Lovi! I told you he liked you back!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “Come on, tell me! Was it good?”

 

“It wasn’t that good,” I muttered. “He used too much tongue. And spit.”

 

“Oh…” Veneziano looked puzzled. “You didn’t like it? I thought you liked him.”

 

“The second one was better,” I admitted unwillingly, settling the mug of soup on my bent knees and propping myself up against a fluffy pillow. “But he should have _asked_ first.”

 

“Toni never asks first,” said Veneziano gravely. “How was the sex?”

 

I almost fell off the bed. “H-how did you know?” I spluttered, wiping soup from the corner of my mouth as I struggled back upright. Maybe it was the wine, but it was a little harder than usual to control my hands. And my face. I probably looked ridiculously surprised.

 

Veneziano shrugged. “I just guessed,” he said matter-of-factly. “How was it?”

 

It can be hard to reconcile your image of your innocent-minded, adorable, popular younger brother with someone who asks about sex _that_ casually. Even if you’ve known him as long as I’ve known him, which you haven’t.

 

“We didn’t have sex, dumbass,” I said in annoyance. “What made you think I said yes?”

 

It was Veneziano’s turn to look surprised. “Well… if you didn’t want to, that’s okay, I guess, Lovi!”

 

It was like Spain was offering me some kind of fucking privilege, and Feli was chiding me for not taking advantage. I frowned. “I know it’s okay!” I said, a little more loudly than I should have, even though just that day I’d been doubting whether I made the wrong decision or not. “It’s my choice, right?”

 

“Of course it’s your choice,” chirped Veneziano, tucking his toes beneath him like a cat. “But does that mean that you don’t like him?”

 

“No!” I spit. “I… I do still like him, okay? Not that it’s any of your business!” I paused. “Just because I didn’t want to have sex with him the minute after he kissed me for the first time doesn’t mean I don’t _like_ him.”

 

“Are you worried about how he reacted to that?” Veneziano asked shrewdly. “Don’t worry,” he added, before I could splutter out some half-assed excuse, “he won’t be upset! He’s liked you for _ages,_ Lovi!”

 

“Whatever,” I said weakly, sinking back into the pillow, resigned to the fact that my younger brother was, and would always be, more informed about my love life than I would myself. “It’s not like I _care_ about him.” Vaguely, in the back of my mind, something was telling me that that statement didn’t add up with everything else I’d said, but it was being blocked by filmy layers of exhaustion.

 

“Of course,” said Veneziano, who seemed relieved that I hadn’t done anything more violent than that. “I’ll take that,” he added, reaching for the mug of soup, which had become empty somehow during our conversation. I handed it over without protest, suddenly feeling exhausted. The pillows under my back seemed to cave in, drawing me deeply into the bed, which seemed as soft as a cloud. Probably Veneziano was right-- this wasn’t as big of a deal as I’d thought.

 

“Goodnight, Lovi,” Veneziano whispered, turning off the light before he started towards the door.

 

“I ... hate that Spanish bastard...  Feli,” I muttered, already half-asleep. “Li mortacci tua… asshole…”

 

“Sure.” He closed the door with a soft click.

* * *

  
I woke up to a call from Spain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as you can see, romano and veneziano have a better relationship here than in canon /D 
> 
> there will be germany/italy in this fic!   
> i hc veneziano as polyamorous, by the way, but i'm not sure if that fact will actually mean anything in this story yet. we'll see
> 
> hetalia does not belong to me ;v;


	4. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4: Romano
> 
> Apparently Nothing Can Ever Be Easy; Spain asks me on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for swearing and Lovino being soppy

To be more specific, the  _call from Spain_  woke  _me_  up.

Or, if we're going to be even more specific than that, the sound of Veneziano banging on my door at 6 o'clock in the morning and screaming, "LOVI, YOUR PHONE IS RINGING!" woke me up.

I sat bolt upright in bed, hit my head on the bedpost, swore for a good five seconds, opened the door in Veneziano's face (" _Lov- aaugh!")_ , tore downstairs, and collided at top speed with Germany in the hallway. For some unfathomable reason, the asshole was carrying several boards of wood (did I mention, this was  _6 o'clock in the goddamn morning?_ Because it was) so I should probably say that I-  _my face_ \- collided with the  _boards of wood_ , which sent me flying backwards straight into Veneziano, who had rushed downstairs in time to be smashed into the wall along with me.

In the dead pause that ensued immediately following this collision, my phone stopped ringing. Something wet and warm trickled down my face. I realized my nose was bleeding.

You could say that it wasn't the exact way I'd wanted to start my day.

I struggled to my feet and staggered into the kitchen, trusting Germany to pick Veneziano up off the floor. Whoever had been calling, they would  _pay_  for this.

I grabbed a wad of paper towel off the counter and shoved it in the general direction of my nose before striding over to grab my phone, which was still in my coat pocket from last night. Behind me, I could  _feel_ the deathly glare Germany was sending at my back as he and Veneziano entered the kitchen behind me. I ignored him. Despite the fact that we were nations and thus rather more durable than the average civilian, he insisted on constantly reminding me that I needed to treat Feli with more care than I'd been accustomed to during our long and often turbulent relationship as brothers. And, okay, I hated to admit it, but he was probably right.

Still. Me. Six in the morning. No coffee. I don't know what he was expecting.

I plucked a splinter out of my cheek, pointedly ignoring them both, and turned on my phone.

**You have one (1) missed call from: Antonio Fernández Carriedo.**

I should have  _known_  it would be him, fuck all. I turned around, phone in hand, to see Germany still giving me that frustrated glare, the one that said,  _Don't make me actually have to talk to you in order to make my meaning clear._  I stopped myself from rolling my eyes at the last second. Despite the mutual tolerance-respect thing we'd developed over the course of his relationship with Veneziano, this was the one thing that he would never let go of. After a tense moment, I sighed, not in the mood to pick a fight today.

"Sorry- Feli, Beilschmidt," I said, a little stiffly. "I should watch where I'm going. You all right?"

It had taken me a while to grasp the concept of an apology. Words and manners had never meant a great deal to me; actions had always spoken far more, though I knew it was sometimes different for others. The thing was that when it came to nations, you could never tell if an apology, or even an offer of friendship, was genuine or just some kind of diplomatic favor meant to ease tensions between governments or somesuch. The only fail-safe way to judge a country's real intentions was to watch what things they  _did-_ like a hawk. It was sometimes jarring to convert between addressing your friends as, well,  _people,_ and speaking to them as one nation to another.

"It's okay, I'm fine!" said Veneziano cheerfully, having been oblivious to the whole exchange; he was wiping up the drops of blood I'd trailed on the counter. He was horribly bright and peppy for it being so early. Germany glanced at him, then relaxed and gave me a nod, too; he even favored me with a small smile. It was almost as if he thought his approval meant something to me. (Which it might or might not have- what's it to you?)

"I have to return this call," I said, rather unnecessarily, holding up the phone and pointing to it as explanation before backing into the hallway and opening the front door. Apologizing for things like that always left a bitter taste in my mouth- not that the experience was designed to be pleasant.

I left the door open a crack, leaning against the house and surveying the dark sky for a second. What was that idiot doing, calling when the sun was barely beginning to rise? He wasn't usually this early of a riser. I sighed and touched the screen of my phone, lifting it to my ear.

He picked up almost immediately. "Lovi!" he said, happily as always, as if yesterday had never even happened. This… was not helping my nerves. "I was wondering if you'd be up so early!"

"Wouldn't have been if your call hadn't woken me up, you piece of shit," I snapped crossly. (Remember what I said about coffee, and my lack of it at that moment?) "What happened? There some emergency? I've  _told_ you, if it's about politics, it can wait 'til after food!"

"Ah- sorry, Lovi!" apologized Spain immediately. Now,  _there_  was one guy who didn't need any lessons on apologizing. I don't know whether it's the fact that, unlike my brother, I  _don't_ act like a ray of sunshine all the time, but I felt like Spain was always trying to apologize to me for something or other. Even when I was pissed off at him for a reason  _I_ knew was ridiculous- he apologized anyway. Sometimes it made me want to scream at him. I mean, like, " _What are you trying to compensate for?"_  But I already knew, without having to say it, that he'd never understand what I meant.

"It's fine," I said instead.

"It's not about politics," Spain assured me, his bright voice a little distorted through the phone. "I just wanted to know if you wanted to spend time together today!"

That was what he always said. I sighed. It seemed that he'd decided to ignore the whole kiss-kiss thing he'd instigated yesterday, then- maybe he'd expected me to be a better lover than I had been, or he'd decided he didn't want to put up with my shit as a boyfriend on top of everything else. Honestly, I didn't really blame him- I wasn't any catch, especially compared to him.

"And you just couldn't wait 'til a decent time of day to hear my voice again, right?" I asked sarcastically, shifting position as I leaned back against the house, staring up at the few remaining stars in the dark portion of the sky.

"That too," said Spain, as if it was no big deal, and I almost choked. I could never tell if he was just playing along, or if he genuinely hadn't caught my sarcasm and really meant it.

"Yeah, I'm free to hang out today," I said, since I couldn't think of any smooth response to this. "I mean, I'm not doing anything better, so…" I repressed another sigh- God, I was literally sighing over him. This was terrible. I felt like saying something dramatic, worthy of the situation, like,  _"Oh, Antonio, I can't believe our romance is over before it's even begun…"_ Or, perhaps,  _"Just give me one more chance!"_

Instead, I said, "Your house again?" That would be okay, I mean, it wouldn't be  _bad,_ even if I'd have preferred something more. We'd probably just watch stupid soap operas and cook messy pasta together like we usually did. As friends.

Good friends.

Maybe even best friends.

But it was hard to accept that we would go from friends, to people who kissed each other, to just friends again, in the space of a day. And I'd spent so long trying to accept the fact that he'd never like me back, too. Well, there was nothing for it. I'd just have to accept reality. It wasn't a big deal, really. I didn't need romance in my life. I didn't even want it. This was fine. Fine.

"Actually," said Spain, "I was thinking that today could be more like… a date?"

I choked again and dropped my phone.

When I finally recovered the proper usage of my lungs again ( _"Lovi? Are you still there?")_ I bent down to pick up the phone. "Sorry, dropped my phone.  _What_ did you say?"

"A date!" Spain said enthusiastically. "I want to take you on a date!" He paused; I held my breath. "Unless, I mean… maybe you don't want to?" he said, sounding a bit deflated- disappointed, perhaps, at the lack of my loud, dramatic squeals of pure joy at this pronouncement. Honestly, I was more stunned than anything. There was an awkward silence while I struggled to find some kind of response in the suddenly blank recesses of my stupid brain.

"Uhh… I'd like that," I finally sputtered stupidly, unable to come up with anything more clever than that. "What time?"  _Oh, my God. Oh my God, Antonio just asked me on a date. Jesus, fucking Christ on a bike, he said_ date.

"Really?!" Spain's voice perked up again. I got the distinct feeling he was holding the phone away from his ear and dancing around the room. The thought made warmth pulse in my chest, somewhere beneath all the fluttering excitement that his words had triggered and which refused to go away. He'd been worried I wouldn't say yes. He'd  _worried_ over me.  _Ha, stupid pessimistic inner voice!_ I thought triumphantly.  _Not today, sucker, not today! I've still got a chance at this!_

A kiss was one thing. A date was another. This would clear everything up- I'd finally get to gauge his interest in me, what he wanted from our relationship, and maybe even get another kiss from him. I couldn't keep a smile from taking over my face at the thought.

"Can you meet me at 3:00?" asked Spain. "In front of my house?"

"Where'd that be?" I asked, curiosity piqued. "Or… is it a secret?" I let the tiniest hint of flirtiness enter my voice, tilting my head slightly, even though I knew he couldn't see me. It was fun anyway.

"It's a secret!" Spain confirmed cheerily, apparently missing my attempt to flirt. I wasn't too fussed about it. There would be plenty of time for clever banter and butterfly-inducing flirtations at our date, wherever it would be. Our  _date._ I was actually slightly giddy. I would never have expected Spain to ask me out on a date in a  _secret location-_ who knew he could be so romantic? Well, I knew he could be romantic- I'd seen him charm enough girls to be well assured of that fact- but not to  _me._

"Hmph, fine," I said, striving to sound cool and composed, as if being asked on a date in a secret location was something that happened to me every second Friday, and I was doing him a favor by accepting. "3:00 at your house, then. Don't be late."

"I won't!" confirmed Spain happily. "See you then, Lovi!"

"See you," I said, before realizing he'd already hung up. I poked the screen three times, making sure he'd definitely left the call, before letting myself throw my fist in the air and scream, "FUCK  _YEAH!"_ at the top of my voice.

Hey, you gotta let yourself celebrate these things.

After I'd regained my temporarily-lost sanity, I glanced around to make sure nobody had caught me shrieking cusswords at the crack of dawn, then hastily retreated back into the house.

Veneziano was setting out rolls and coffee on the kitchen table when I arrived. Germany was poring over some complicated-looking architectural diagrams- he doesn't really talk much in the morning. I strolled in casually, trying to look like the kind of person who wouldn't have been outside screaming "FUCK YEAH!" to the heavens just a few minutes ago. If either of them had heard, they gave no sign of it.

"Here's coffee," Veneziano said brightly, shoving a mug into my hand and sitting me down at the table. "What did Antonio say?"

I made sure to take a long sip of coffee before I answered; I wanted to savor the looks on their faces. "Well… nothing much," I paused, while Veneziano eyed me expectantly. "He just asked me on a date," I said carelessly, waving a hand and knocking over the salt shaker.

Frankly, I was disappointed. Veneziano smiled, but he wasn't jumping all around the room in excitement or anything, and Germany hadn't even looked up. I mean, at least  _I'd_ showed the proper amount of emotion when Veneziano told me he was dating Germany. Okay, so maybe I'd shrieked in horror, thrown a nearby potted plant at his chest, and slammed the door in his face so hard it rattled- but at least the  _scale_ of the reaction had been appropriate. And it had been  _Germany._ I still consider my behavior that day to be perfectly understandable, given the history between him and me, even if we've sort of mellowed out to each other over time.

"That's nice!" Veneziano said, piling rolls onto my plate and beaming at me. "I told you he wouldn't be mad!"

"And  _I_ told  _you_ ," I grumbled, ripping a roll in half and buttering it, "he's got no reason to be!"

"Hmm… you're right!" decided Veneziano, setting the salt shaker back upright. "But you were worried that he would be, so…"

"I was  _not_ worried," I fibbed wholeheartedly, biting into the roll and speaking with my mouth full. "At  _all._ I dunno where you get these dumb ideas, Feli."

This time it was Germany who smirked, although his eyes were still fixed on his diagrams. I glared at the top of his head. Like he could talk- remind me to tell you about his and Feli's first date sometime. For now, let's just say there was an engagement ring shaped like a tomato involved.

Whatever. I was too excited to really be mad at either of them. Who cared if they thought I was being dumb-  _they_  weren't the only people in my life. I had Spain, too. If Spain'd thought I was stupid, he wouldn't have asked me out. Spain  _liked_ me. He hadn't had to ask me out, but he'd done it anyway. I wasn't just some kind of pity obligation to him.

To be honest, it had been a while since I'd felt so sure of that.

After breakfast, I headed up to my room again, wondering what I was going to do with myself for the seven hours until I needed to get ready for the date. Adorable though I'd found Spain's idea of surprising me on our first date, I didn't know what I was supposed to wear, or if I should bring something. What if he wanted to take me to an expensive restaurant, and I showed up in a button-down shirt or something? I mean, I took my clothes seriously. On the other hand, if he wanted to take a romantic walk by the river with me and feed the ducks, I'd ruin anything nice I would be wearing. I sighed. It seemed Spain hadn't really thought this through.

That was all right. I would just call and ask what I should wear. I pulled my phone from my pocket and quickly called him, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I rummaged through my wardrobe.

"Hello?" A voice that was definitely not Spain answered. I frowned. Did I have a wrong number? "Who's there?" The next second, I realized it was France. Why did France have Spain's phone?

"It's Romano. Where's Spain?" I answered brusquely, hoping my cold tone of voice would make it clear I wasn't interested in small talk.

It didn't work. "Ah, Lovino!" France exclaimed, sounding more elated than he should have, given our… past interactions. "I see! You wish to speak to your lover, no?"

"We're not exactly lovers," I said irritably, adjusting the position of the phone on my shoulder. "Is he there? Can you ask him…" I hesitated, then just went for it, "...what he thinks I should wear for our date today?" There was no point in trying to conceal the fact of the date from France- he'd have all the juicy little details from Spain by tonight, no matter what I did or said.

France gave a delighted little laugh that grated on my nerves. I gritted my teeth. "I will ask him, my young Romeo. Wait just a second."

"It's  _Romano,"_ I grumbled, even though I'd already heard the  _clunk_ that meant he'd put the phone down and, presumably, gone in search of Spain. I riffled through dress shirts, biting my lip as I hesitated over a bright red one. Maybe it would stand out too much. I didn't think Spain would take me to a bullfighting arena, but I tended to avoid wearing bright colors as a rule anyway.

There was a rustle from my phone, indicating France had picked it back up. "By the way, you just referenced one of  _Kirkland's_  playwrights," I sniped at him, replacing the red shirt on the rack. "Don't tell me you're going soft on the old rivalry."

"What are you talking about?" A new voice, one that was neither France nor Spain, said roughly. "Romano, that is you, right? Toni said just something casual would be fine."

I rolled my eyes, irritated. Trust that bastard to be vague as fuck. "Beilschmidt, what are you doing? Where's Francis?"

"He couldn't be bothered to come back and tell you," said Prussia disinterestedly. "So, hey, Toni finally did it, huh?"

"Did what?" I said tersely, eyeing a white button-down.  _That counts as casual, right?_

"What d'you think? Asked you out on a date!" My  _God,_ Prussia's voice was grating. Was he pressing his fucking mouth against the mic? I held the phone a little away from my ear.

"Yeah, what's it to you?" I replied.

Prussia breathed in audibly. "Well, he almost didn't, did he?" I straightened up; this was news to me.

"What do you mean?" I asked cautiously, deciding on the white shirt and laying it out on the bed. Forget Spain, all three of them were all vague, infuriating idiots. Couldn't trust any of them for a second.

"He almost didn't ask you out," Prussia said simply, sounding bored. "Took him long enough, too."

I glanced back at the open wardrobe, a cold feeling settling in my stomach. "Gilbert, what the fuck are you talking about?"  _He almost didn't ask me out- what does that even mean?_

"Whatever." Prussia sounded supremely uninterested with the results his words had had on me. "Ask him yourself if you don't get it." A pause. "On second thought, maybe you shouldn't."

"Beilschmidt,  _so help me God_ -!" I yelled into the phone, but it was too late; Prussia had hung up. In a fit of spite, I chucked the phone at my bed, all traces of a good mood ruined.

_Well, he almost didn't, did he? He almost didn't ask you out._ No matter how I turned the words around in my head, they seemed to add up to the same thing:  _he only_ just  _wanted to date you. Made the decision on a whim. It wouldn't have made much difference to him if he hadn't. He doesn't really give a fuck after all._ Furious, I crossed my arms and sat down hard on the bed, crumpling the shirt I'd picked up. I should have known it was too good to be true. Even though nobody'd been privy to my private explosion of excitement and happiness except for me, I still felt horribly embarrassed. I'd been so flattered, when in fact this had been an  _almost-didn't_ kind of date all along. Fuck him. Fuck Gilbert and Francis.

Most of all,  _fuck me._ Fuck me right in the ass, because I'd managed once again to misread something he'd done. I was always trying to get some kind of deeper meaning out of Spain's actions, but had I ever considered that Spain might not take me as seriously as I took him? That maybe I didn't matter as much to him as I thought I did? That maybe he didn't even think of me with fondness, let alone romantic attraction?

Well,  _yes_.  _Now that you mention it,_ I thought to myself furiously,  _those sound an awful lot like the insecurities you've carried around with you ever since you were a child. You know, the ones you've gone through hell trying to get rid of._ Pissed off at myself, I uncrossed my arms and clenched handfuls of sheets in both my hands.  _Goddamnit, Lovino Vargas, you're such an_ idiot.

I was snapped out of my angry thoughts by the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. The next second, Germany poked his head through my partially open door.

"What did you want?" he asked, looking a little concerned. I gaped at him, utterly confused for a few seconds, before I realized.

"I wasn't calling for you. I was just, ah, talking to your brother on the phone," I explained. He rolled his eyes; obviously the mention of his brother explained everything to him. (I knew the feeling.)

"I see." He hesitated slightly; I waited for him to leave, but instead he shifted his feet and looked at me steadily. "... Whatever he said to upset you. I wouldn't take it too seriously," he finally said, looking a little embarrassed to be giving me advice.

"Oh. Okay." Equally embarrassed, I looked down at my feet. For a second, I considered telling him exactly what Prussia'd said to upset me, but the next second I mentally hit myself around the head for even  _considering_ it. Call me petty, but I wasn't yet at such a low point that I'd think about confiding in Mr Blueprints-during-breakfast Beilschmidt. "Thanks," I said instead. He nodded and slunk out of the doorway.

I sat there for a second, but all the fury had drained out of me, replaced by a hollow resignation. I got up, straightening out the wrinkled shirt and hanging it up on the door. There was no time for feeling sorry for myself. I might not be capable of just "not taking it too seriously", but I did have a date to prepare for, after all.

And then I'd give Spain a good fucking piece of my mind.

Armed with this reassuring thought, I went about finding the perfect pair of trousers for my date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was thinking about making this a happy chapter but actually, haha, lovino was spending too much time not miserable inside so  
> sorry about the filler chapter-ness. i always ramble on too much and end up losing sight of the plot. i tried to make it funny, though
> 
> i'm almost tempted to just drop spain in a ditch somewhere and make this story all about germany, romano, and veneziano, because i'm finding myself really liking their whole dynamic ! i mean. i wouldn't do that. but
> 
> hetalia doesn't belong to me! thanks for reading :)


	5. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 5: Romano  
> There Are Soppy Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: ridiculous drama

Fortunately, by the time I started out for Spain's house, I'd cooled down a bit. Enough to realize that him not taking our relationship as seriously as I wished he would wasn't really a legitimate reason to hate him, anyway. (Sigh…)

Unfortunately, letting myself stop being mad at him allowed me to get crushingly depressed about the whole thing. That's really why I get irritated at unreasonable things- because anger is one of those emotions that blocks out everything else. At least if I'm mad, I don't have to think about how stupid it is that I'm mad, or how sad or guilty or ashamed I am underneath all that anger. It's probably a shitty coping skill, I know, but hey- it's not like you can just choose to react a certain way or not. Even if you know something's wrong, it can be hard to change it, especially if it's something about yourself.

I considered canceling the date and letting the whole thing just fade out before we'd gotten in too deep, but ultimately decided against it. Instead, I pledged to tell Spain straight-out what I felt about our relationship. I knew by now that I couldn't handle this just being a fun fling- even if he could. I mean, one day after the kiss and I'd already become a nervous wreck seven times over just because of him doing normal little things, you know? I almost wished I wasn't in love with him. It would make my life so much easier.

Almost wished, though. I didn't really wish that. It wasn't exactly like I was in love against my will, or something stupid like that- I'd had plenty of time to get comfortable with the fact, even if it took a ridiculous amount of time in the beginning to get my head out of my own ass and realize what was going on. And I didn't just like Spain because he was 'the only one who'd ever been kind to me' or something- it wasn't because he was my only option that I'd set my sights on him. I liked Spain for  _being himself-_ how he was happy a lot of the time, and liked pretty things, and would always give somebody a second chance, and his stupid jokes, and how gentle he was with plants and sad people. Even if I'd had a whole sea of other options, I'd always have picked him.

My God, that was… terrible.

Look, I'm just not good at phrasing shit like this, all right? When you've lived as long as I have, you've read enough crap romance scenes for the style to sink into your blood. The centuries might turn, but as long as there's a human species around,  _some_ body will be writing sappy angst about the only star in their night sky, the rose their sun longs to touch its beams to. It might as well be me right now.

Anyway, you can see how the situation was, right?

So, if he really had just decided to have his fun with me on some kind of whim, I'd end it here, I resolved. It would probably be awkward and hard to say, but that was better than struggling through horrible, torrid heartbreak and keeping the reason of it secret from him because it'd just be too damn embarrassing to admit that I'd been in love with him for years, when all while he thought of me as a pretty face to play around with some.

Yes. I was resolved. I was determined. I'd find out what his true feelings were. And then I'd end it if I felt I had to. I was completely in control of the situation. I was going to be assertive. I was going to make my needs known. Spain would see that he couldn't mess around with my feelings and get away with it.

Finally, I'd take my side of this relationship into my own hands. That was what I was thinking as I drove confidently towards Spain's house. (Insofar as one can drive a car "confidently", that is. Let's say I was driving it as confidently as anyone ever drove a car. I even almost ran a red light.)

I pulled up in Spain's driveway, looking around; it was exactly 3:00 pm, and the bastard wasn't outside waiting for me. I wondered if I was supposed to ring the doorbell, but just as I unbuckled my seatbelt, Spain's front door opened and France strolled out, a large envelope in his hand.  _Spain's going to leave his house in the hands of those two? What the hell is he thinking?_ Is _he thinking, come to that?_

As I watched, France continued walking down the driveway. I leaned back in my seat, irritated, hoping he'd pass me by, but instead he made a pronounced turn towards me at the last moment and bent down, knocking on the glass as if I were a goldfish in a tank.

" _What do you want?"_ I mouthed, glaring at him. He frowned and rapped on the glass again. I lowered the window and gave him my best death glare. "Don't  _do_ that, you piece of shit, I just washed those windows!"

Oblivious to the insult, France peered into my car and gave the inside a sweeping, obvious glance. I cringed, feeling unfairly judged- as I always did when he was around. Finally, as if a bit disappointed to not be seeing any beautiful, naked models hiding under the seat cushions, he handed me the envelope he'd been holding.

"Antonio told me to give you this," he said. I took the envelope and turned it over in my hands; on the back, in Spain's handwriting, were the words  _FOR LOVI_ and a dumb crooked heart. There seemed to be at least one small object inside it. I looked up, but France was already walking leisurely back up towards the house. I did my very best to burn holes into the back of his very fashionable jacket. Although I couldn't claim to enjoy the man's company, he did have a way of making people feel slighted, the way he would pretend you weren't worth a dime of his time.

However, today I didn't have time to be grousing over the continued existence of Francis's inflated ego; I turned my attention back to the letter in my hands. Since Spain would have texted me if he'd not been able to make the date for some reason, this must be part of what he had planned. I opened the envelope easily; it had been sealed before, but now looked as if it'd been neatly opened once already.  _God damn that idiot Bonnefoy._

**Lovi,**

**I hope Francis gave you the letter like I asked him to! He probably opened it, but don't worry, there's nothing here that he shouldn't know. I'm not in the house, which is why I wrote this to you.**

If he was going to trust his friends this much, he should have picked better ones to begin with, I thought irritably.

**I'm waiting for you at the end of this puzzle. Don't worry, I won't get bored, so take your time.**

Was this one of those awful cheesy scavenger-hunt like things, where I'd go all over Europe looking for letters that would give me hints to the next link in the chain? How awfully romantic. And unoriginal. But still… it was sweet. And more importantly, he'd probably spent a lot of time setting it up- he'd spent a lot of time on  _me._

**Now, for the first step, you should go to the place we first met! Also, you should take pictures!**

**Love,**

**Toni**

_The place we first met?_ Really? I mean, this was cliché to the extreme. And what was that about pictures? I folded the letter back up and reached inside the envelope again. This time, I pulled out one of those cheap plastic disposable cameras.  _Huh._ I had never really used one of these before. I twiddled the dial and then blinked as the thing went off with a flash, probably capturing a gorgeous view of light reflecting off of the inside window. I set the camera on the seat next to me and pulled out of the driveway, thinking.

The place we first met… I assumed he was talking about the house I'd lived in as a child, with Spain. Of course he'd want me to go back there, maybe take a few cute selfies by the front door, for old times' sake. I supposed he didn't remember the countless times I'd (violently, with much screaming, on occasion) reminded him that I wasn't a kid anymore, that the whole world had now seen what a shitty idea colonizing and controlling other countries was, and that it wasn't 'cute' to reminisce about little kids calling you "Boss". He never listened. Sure, he always showed painful remorse for a lot of the shitty things he'd done back then, but when it came to personal interactions with other nations, he never seemed to connect the dots and figure out that while someone might not still be pissed off at him because his government once declared war a hundred years ago, they might not have forgotten that once he tried to, I dunno, maybe t _rade them for their brother_ because  _he didn't like their personality._

Yanno, just a random example. I've no idea where I came up with it. (Are you catching the sarcasm here?)

The thing I didn't think he understood is that there was nothing he could do to make up for something like that. No matter how many times he told me that I was wonderful, cute, funny, adorable, amazing- I was flattered, of course, but it's not like a million compliments somehow take away from the one insult. It was just part of me now, the fact that the two people who were supposed to take care of me, who I loved more than anybody, each tried to choose Veneziano over me. And I wished that people would stop trying to compensate for that by telling me I was just as good as my brother, in a different way. That I was better than Feli at gardening, or board games, or some shit.

I mean, who gave a flying fuck if I could cheat at cards ten times better than my brother could? I didn't want to be better than him. I wanted to stop being compared to him, and let him stop getting compared to me.

Ha. Do you see what I mean now? If I even start thinking about my childhood, I get all angst-filled and depressed and melt into a puddle of feeling sorry for myself. I sighed as I turned the corner and headed for the old house, just a few minutes away from where Spain lived now. I wished he'd have paid a little more attention, one of those times we were both drunk and I was crying on his couch and telling him all this shit and he was doing a really good impression of listening to me. Then we wouldn't have started out this dumb first date on such a depressing note.

This dumb first date that I was going to  _cut short_ as soon as I fucking actually met Spain face to face,  _that is._

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.

* * *

 

The second letter was hidden in some raggedy old bushes outside Spain's old mansion. Nowadays, he lived in a normal house, thank God, but it seemed that he still owned this building, since nobody looked to be living in it or doing anything to it. I took a second to look up at the place- even as a sort of decrepit old building, it was pretty huge and intimidating. When I was little, I couldn't even navigate the place easily, because it was so huge and all the fancy shit looked pretty much the same. I'd spent a lot of time wandering around looking for Spain, because I was too proud to yell for him.

This really was the place where we'd first met- at least, if there'd been another place, it was nothing I remembered. The old mansion seemed, while still ridiculously large, less of a gigantic immovable structure than it had when I'd been two feet tall.

**Lovi,**

**You never seemed to like it here much, but this is where we first met and lived together for a while. I am sorry for forcing you to do work under me, even if that was how the world was at the time. Back then, I was resentful of you because you wouldn't obey me, but that was because I was used to having everybody around me under my control. However, looking back, in a way I'm glad that you never stopped being sharp to me, because when I think about it now it reassures me that even after going through all the things you did when you were young, you didn't lose your own personality in all of it. I would hate for that to happen to someone like you.**

**I don't like to think about the less pleasant parts of my past, but all the same I regret that I never opened this conversation with you before. A complicated relationship like ours needs a lot of communication, wouldn't you agree? I don't know if you still think about it at all, or if anything about your past still bothers you, but if you ever wanted to talk about it, I'll be willing to listen to you. I'm sorry that I'm not as brave in person as I am on paper! It's been something I've wanted to address for a while, but you're the first I've brought it up with. Would it be really terribly cliché to say that you give me courage?**

**Sorry, this is not very romantic. I don't know what else to write.**

**Toni**

A little way down the page, another few words were written:

**Next, go to the Italian Embassy.**

I squinted down at the paper, rereading it a couple of times. It was too much to take in, as if Spain had just taken all the shocking revelations he owned, squashed them into two cramped paragraphs, and left them there with no soothing happy words to cushion in between them _. I would hate for that to happen to someone like you… what does that even mean? And… I give him_ courage?

I would have laughed if the letter weren't so sober, because it  _was_ terribly cliché. And sweet. And possibly one of the most understatedly kind things anyone had ever said to me. There was a weird tight feeling in my chest. I swiped at my eyes and returned the letter to its envelope, vowing to return to it when I had the proper time to devote to understanding what it meant. After all, the feel of it was one of an open-ended invitation, with no specific time stamp.

Actually, the letter was quite jarring. It was so … serious. And sad. Now, don't get me wrong, I've seen Spain at his worst- the fact that the letter wasn't all,  _Oh Lovi, how I love to live!_ wasn't the surprising part. I'd seen Spain miserable, in mourning, greedy, arrogant, unfeeling, cruel, brutal, feverishly ill, bawling like a baby from physical pain, burned out like a candle, shrieking with frustration, almost completely inhuman- but the thing was, he only showed any of this when he couldn't hold it back any longer, or he was at the point of not caring at all.  _That's_  why the letter stood out to me- because Spain was deliberately showing himself to be vulnerable, when he had no reason to -besides wanting to connect with me better.

Cue the horrible warm fluttery feelings in my ribcage.

It seemed that Spain had written the two letters at two different times, judging by the difference in tone. If that were true, obviously he'd been planning this for longer than I thought he had. He must have been quite nervous, to have not launched this whole operation right away- Spain was a very spur-of-the-moment kind of guy. Maybe  _that's_ what Prussia had meant by 'he almost didn't do it'?

Well, whatever. I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the sentimental mood that clung to me like plastic wrap. I'd find everything out when I  _met_ Spain, so if I wanted to know, I'd better focus on getting to him as soon as possible. I had to admit that I was a bit curious, now, to see where he'd planned on us ending up.

I snapped a photo of the mansion, and one that (hopefully) had at least part of my face in the frame, for posterity's sake. Then I got back into the car.

* * *

 

I was worried that I'd have to go inside the embassy- it's always embarrassing to actually be recognized- and subsequently harried to death- as a national personification by people you barely even know. It's true that we have a certain amount of influence in our governments sometimes, seeing as we've got first-hand historical knowledge and sometimes catch colds depending on the state of the economy, but for the most part we're just a bunch of idiots stuck in bodies with unfortunate ages (we're literally forever immature and flooded with hormones, I don't understand what politicians want from us.)

However, once I saw who was waiting for me, I'd have been inside that embassy in a heartbeat if I could have been.

Prussia strolled up to me, looking bored. I rolled down the window just an inch, enough for him to shove an envelope through the crack. It landed on my lap.

"Spain said to tell you to go to 'your favorite spot in Madrid'," he said idly. I sneered at him, still sore over this morning's phone call, and rolled the window back up as I pulled away. I didn't want him getting all nosy about the contents of the letter- it was bad enough that France would be peppering our landline with nosy questions later tonight (and that I couldn't prevent Veneziano from cheerfully answering them to the best of his ability) without Prussia butting in as well. It'd do those two good to  _not_ think they knew everything about Spain's life for once.

"YOU'RE WELCOME, LOSER!" Prussia hollered, hands cupped around his mouth. I flipped him the bird over my shoulder, driving away as fast as I could before he threw something at my car.

I knew what Spain meant by my 'favorite spot in Madrid', but I paused anyway, pulling over to the side of the road so I could read the second letter.

**Dear Lovi,**

**The world sure has come a long way, to have embassies symbolizing the good relationship between countries. And same-sex relationships are getting more accepted, too. In my country, we could get married! I think we'd still face a lot of prejudice as a gay couple (that's what we'd be, right?), though, if you decide to keep dating me.**

**I guess you're wondering why I chose now to ask you out, right? I'm sorry that I didn't ask you first before I kissed you. I got really nervous and thought you might say no, and I wanted to have one to remember if it turned out you didn't like me the same way, which is stupid. But you're always saying I'm stupid, so you knew that already, didn't you?**

**I've liked you for a really long time. And I think you like me back too. But I'm not sure how far that goes, in either direction. I'm kind of nervous about this. I can live with being your friend, too, because it doesn't matter to me what kind of relationship we have as long as I get to stand by you. You'll always be the most important person to me- that's speaking as a friend, not as a nation. So, if you don't want to be in a romantic relationship with me, I won't mind at all, but please don't push me away. Without you, sometimes I get lonely, which is stupid because I have a whole country full of people in my bones to keep me company, and enough memories to power years and years of futile dreaming.**

**I wonder if you get lonely for me, sometimes. That's why I chose now. I want to get better. I think I'm a pretty good person now, but Francis and Gilbert say that it's important to always be trying to get better, and that a long life isn't any excuse for procrastinating on things that are important to me. I think they're right. But I'm scared that taking this new step will mess up our friendship.**

**Love,**

**Toni**

You know, I wasn't sure I liked this new habit Spain was developing, that habit of just dropping emotionally-laden bombshells on top of my head with no warning whatsoever.

 _He wants to marry me!_ was the idiotic first thing to flash through my head. I had just enough time to be properly horrified at that before the gravity of all the other things he'd said really sunk in.  _I'm the most important person to him. Without me, sometimes he gets lonely! He's liked me for a really long time…_

In some ways, this letter pressured me even more than the prospect of sex had, though Spain had obviously written it to be the opposite. I knew that our circumstances were sort of unusual, but it was still a lot of stress on me, regardless of the fact that we'd known each other for so long. He seemed to view it as a kind of experimentation within our current friendship, while I had seen it more as the beginning of something new.

I wasn't used to mattering so much to somebody else. Sure, I mattered when I was playing the part of a nation, but as a person? I'd rarely, if ever, been told that I, specifically, as a person, was important to someone. That was - _incredibly_ flattering- but it was overwhelming, too, in a way. I hadn't realized it was some kind of competition, or that Spain ranked people in order of importance. If I was at the top, were Prussia and France somewhere in the top ten? Were his politicians on there? Did he pick favorites from among his citizens? Did the list include dead people?

I wasn't sure if I could reciprocate this level of affection. I knew that I was really attached to Spain, that I'd rather spend time with him than anybody else, that I was physically attracted to him, that I had deep emotions linked to him that tugged all the time when I moved. But how do you  _measure_ something like that? Maybe Spain was just more demonstrative than I was? I'd been worried about him not taking our relationship seriously, but what if  _I_ was the one disappointing  _him_ at the end of the day, by not loving him enough, by not taking this as seriously as he was?

I wasn't ready. But I didn't have a choice. I'd have to face Spain at the end of all of this. Normally, I'd take a few hours to cool off and really think it through before I confronted a huge issue like this, but today, I didn't have that luxury. I was, however strange it was, actively on a date right now.

I have a tendency to make things overly complicated. And Spain has a habit of calming me down just by being around, yammering silly inconsequential things. But I had a feeling, as I put down the second letter and started up the car again, that Spain wasn't going to make  _anything_ less complicated on this occasion.

And he definitely wouldn't be saying silly inconsequential things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was originally going to have the date just take up one chapter, but there's a flashback which I eventually decided I wanted to be a short separate chapter.
> 
> hopefully i'm doing all right, i stressed a bit about how to make this chapter romantic without actually having spain present. ;
> 
> by the way, this story is also posted at fanfiction.net, where it has just acquired a shiny new cover: https://ffcdn2012t-fictionpressllc.netdna-ssl.com/image/3230464/180/ 
> 
> thanks for reading!


	6. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 6: Romano  
> 1936, Madrid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for the Spanish Civil War. This is the flashback that explains Romano's "favorite place in Madrid".

"You're not even going to say hello to me?" I say irritably, as soon as he opens the door, to hide my shock at his condition. ( _Exhausted and covered in blood_ doesn't even  _begin_  to describe it.) "Che! For your information, it was hell getting into this goddamned city at all, let alone finding you."

"I can't believe you're here," croaks Spain, completely ignoring everything I say. I wait, but he doesn't say anything more than that, instead narrowing his eyes slightly as if looking for some kind of evidence that I'm not real. I give up on eliciting a reaction from him and step over the threshold of the battered door; instantly, he stiffens, figurative hackles rising.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I snort, shaken nonetheless by his reaction. But there's no time to be stepping around him like he's a scared rabbit; you never know whether or not it could be dangerous to be out on the streets nowadays, and I have to be back to Venice by tomorrow afternoon. I turn, surveying the shabby insides of the house, then close the door, since Spain isn't doing it for me.

"Why are you here?" he says, when he notices me looking at him. I hesitate.

"Feli was worried about you," I say, which isn't exactly a lie. "He was just too chicken to come for himself. Or maybe he just didn't want to leave  _me_ alone with Mussolini for more than a half hour."  _I was worried too, you damn bastard._ Obviously he has more important things to be worrying about than sending word to us, but telling myself that didn't help.

Spain finally cracks a smile. "You don't trust him?"

I grunt noncommittally, tucking my hands in my pockets.

"Feliciano does," he adds, after a few awkward seconds.

" _Feliciano_ is an idiot," I mutter, finally. "Why do you care? Mussolini's giving you aid, not that he's exactly got enough to be giving shit away, but it's not for me to question."

Spain looks at me oddly. I don't know why, but the look makes me feel blamed somehow. I scuffle around for another conversation topic, desperately wondering why I came here. Some kind of misguided attempt to comfort this dumbstruck idiot. As if we both don't know, from long, hard experience, that there's only so much comfort anybody can give a nation during a civil war.

"Why are you here, anyway?" I blurt, desperate. "Shouldn't you be, I don't know, somewhere else?"

Spain laughs, but there's no humor in it. "With my government, do you mean? Or perhaps with Francisco Franco, helping to storm my own city?"

I fall silent. It was a stupid question to ask. We stand, Spain's ankle slowly leaking blood onto the floor, and I feel the aching weight of an expanding threat inside my chest. I know he feels it too. We feel, together, for a few heavy moments.

"Come with me," I beg, impulsive, hoping somehow that maybe I can smuggle him back to Venice or Rome, and hide him in our basement, and Veneziano can cook him tomato dishes and sing to him until his wounds fade like a human's would. "I  _hate_ seeing you like this. Let somebody help you-"

Spain smiles and I know that he knows that I know he doesn't even have to answer. I just wanted to say it. Wanted to tell him I'd do it if I thought it would help.

"Thank you, Lovino," he finally says, soft, "but my city is not yet so desolate that I would abandon it."

I huff, disgusted and touched and frustrated all at once. "If you haven't noticed yet,  _Spagna,_ your city fucking sucks right now. Your whole country does!" I refuse to meet his eyes, even though the tension from earlier is suddenly back, choking at the air around us. I slide my toe an inch across the rough floor.

"Then leave," Spain says, his voice suddenly steely. "Go, back to Italy, and prepare for the war we both know is coming. I won't have you hurt on my behalf."

I freeze.

Even here, even now, even in this situation, with every part of me longing for home and my own soil and Veneziano's voice, I so hate to leave him.

"I'll come back, later," I promise, impulsive, my throat full of all the wrong words. "When the war's over. And you won't be- you won't- you understand?!  _Fuck,_ I'll see you again if it _kills_  me! God  _damn you!_ "

I'm crying.

Spain's lip trembles, and he looks for a second like the person I remember.

"You see? My country must be still worth fighting for, if you want so badly to come back here again," he teases lightly, voice rasping in his throat.

"It's not the country I want to see," I mutter into my scarf, so quiet he can't hear me. And then, louder, "Where are you going to meet me, then? And if you say  _heaven,_ I'll punch your  _face_ out."

Spain considers this for a second. "Where is your favorite place in Madrid?" he asks.

I swipe at my eyes furiously, because new tears are welling in them, threatening to push the ocean over the edges of my eyelids. "Your whole country is damned to hell! There's only one place in it that holds a person I care about!" I turn around, placing my palms squarely on Spain's chest; he flinches again, as if expecting me to push him backwards. The scary thing is that I probably could, with him in this state.

"If I come back, and that person isn't here, there wouldn't be one place I loved in this whole fucking country! I'd hate it for good!"

* * *

He comes back to me shaking and empty. I have _nothing_  with which to fill him up. We walk barefoot, me and him, and him carrying Veneziano in his arms, from Rome to Madrid, and neither of us complains that our feet are sore, or that we want to rent a car, because both of us need to feel the ground beneath our feet.

He takes me to my favorite place in Madrid, and we sit in the dust-covered house and wait and wait and wait for Veneziano to wake up.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i don't know very much about the spanish civil war; i did some research, but i'm not entirely sure that just a few sites online would be enough to fully/accurately encompass what transpired there. there isn't much real factual material in this chapter, but please inform me if you happen to know about this topic and see something i did wrong!
> 
> also, i realize that the whole business of shipping hetalia characters in the canon universe can get really iffy, so i just want to make this one thing clear: when spain says lovi is "the most important person to him" that means lovi is his favorite person to be with. he's not referring to south italy or anything political like that. just wanted to emphasize that. 
> 
> anyway this whole chapter is really sad but spain does have a reason for picking this place! as you'll find out in the next chapter.
> 
> thanks for reading!


	7. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 7: Romano  
> I Show Off My Dazzling Conversation Skills To My Crush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are no warnings for this chapter.

Somebody lived here now. It was strange to think that the abandoned, tiny house that Spain'd fled to during his civil war now housed the kind of person who would put Lantana flowers in the window and a colorful "Welcome" mat in front of the door. The whole street was nicely spruced up; it was a little easier to forget all the shit that'd happened here, seeing it like this. I stood vaguely in front of the door, thinking soppy thoughts about regrowth and survival and strength, until I noticed a plain white envelope sticking out of the flower boxes.

Quickly, I drew it out, glancing guiltily at the curtained windows and hoping that the inhabitants hadn't seen me (a college-age, probably shady-looking individual wearing a sharply cut dark coat) plucking a piece of paper out of their  _Lantana camara._ I'd forgotten to take a picture at the embassy- I'd been in too much of a hurry to get away from Prussia, truth be told- but I did take a quick picture of the street with the disposable camera before hurrying back to where my car was parked.

**Dear Lovi,**

**I'm sorry I brought you to such a depressing place, but I wanted you to remember the last time we were here together. The end of World War II was such a hard time for us, and the politics in the time period after that were really complicated, but you stuck by me anyway. Times were when it was easier to predict what was coming in the future, but nowadays the world's gotten bigger- no, not physically, but there are more people alive, and more people connected to each other, so that each individual's sphere of influence has become immeasurably huge. We can't afford to ignore parts of the world that we think don't affect us, which is a scary thought, for me, at least.**

**I've been lucky, that our two countries have generally had good relations in the past. Such a thing as that could easily mess with the personal relationship between us- look at Arthur and Alfred, for example. I know that our governments being enemies in the future wouldn't mean you'd hate me, but in time one of us might be forced to do something the other doesn't agree with, just like what's happened before. Our first duty is to our people, after all.**

**Stuff like that is messy and complicated and political. And, if our countries oppose each other, the feelings of our citizens might affect our relationship too. I'd like to think that we'd be above such things, but I don't really know! All that's very unclear to me still. I just want you to be prepared for something like that to happen. Before recently, I'd liked to believe that everything would be okay between you and me as long as we loved each other, but more and more it looks like that's just not true. It's too bad that we can't just have a world in which we can love each other. But I think you're worth the effort, even if it ends up hurting me.**

**So, even though this wasn't a very charming or romantic first date, and you had to drive all over my city, and I didn't even turn up to talk to you face to face, do you still want to try this?**

**Anyway, I have dinner ready back at my house, so you should come and eat and tell me what you want to do!**

**Toni**

I sighed, folding the letter up and putting it back with the others. I don't know  _why_ I'd expected Spain to be one of those red-rose bearing, tuxedo-wearing, champagne-serving romantic types, but I had. It figures that he'd choose some heartfelt letters and a homemade dinner over that shit. Sure, he had always had a weakness for riches and needless splendor, but fun and good food and honest work were also a part of him- the bigger part, nowadays, although it hadn't always been so.

It must have been a gamble, setting this up and hoping I'd understand what he was trying to say. (I felt like I understood, but then… did I?) What kind of tone was he trying to set? Then again, it definitely wasn't like Spain to purposely try to set any kind of tone whatsoever- he was much more,  _I'm going to do what feels right no matter how stupid it obviously is!_ -you know? To be honest, I wasn't at all sure if this whole letters-journey-thing was sitting right with me or not. It had definitely struck a chord with me, but whether it was the right chord I had no idea. All I knew was that his words made me feel so strongly that it was actually uncomfortable to be in my own head.

With a massive effort, I shelved all the new thoughts floating around in my head, tucking them away to process later at a reasonable pace. As much as I was happy, relieved, and touched by Spain's letters, I was feeling a bit like -well, like maybe it'd been therapeutic for him to release all his emotions and secret thoughts to me, but it was incredibly stressful for me to receive all of it all at once. I didn't want to let him know that, though- what if he decided I was too weak to confide in? I didn't want him to feel like he couldn't talk to me.

I didn't want to think about our two countries going to war someday in the future, or that day in 1936, or being Spain's territory, or his gigantic mansion with no realistically placed bathrooms, or homophobia in Europe, or being traded for my brother, or being the 'most important' person to  _anybody._

I  _wanted_  to go eat whatever Spain made and snark at France and Prussia and answer texts from Veneziano under the table.

And I was going to go do  _that,_ dammit. The rest could wait.

* * *

 

I may not be exactly diligent when it comes to holding up my end of household chores and the like, but that doesn't mean I'm lazy- even that German bastard will tell you that if I set my mind to something, that thing is going to fucking get done exactly the way I want it to. But I was having a hard time actually setting my mind to anything, even though I was driving to Spain's house right that second. I couldn't decide what I wanted to say anymore.

I'd thought I was so determined to tell Spain all about how I wanted a serious relationship, and if he didn't feel deeply for me I didn't want to date me, and then Spain had dumped this fucking shitton of emotionally laden bricks on my head. I was beginning to wonder if he could read my mind. It would certainly explain a lot.

I parked my car in the driveway of Spain's house and rang the doorbell. There was a brief scuffle from inside before, to my disgust,  _France_  opened the door and beamed brightly.

"Bonjour, Lovino!" he chirped, ignoring my horrified stare. "We were just leaving, don't worry, you'll get all the alone time you want with your Spanish lover- ow, _merde,_ Gilbert!"

"I  _told_ you, I want to stay and watch Toni get all swoony over his crush!" whined Gilbert, who France had dragged into view by the back of his collar. It looked kind of painful to me, but  _I_ wasn't about to protest. Pain was  _good_ , when it came to these two experiencing it. All right, I did know I should treat Spain's best friends better, but it was hard to when they were both such  _bastardos._

"If you don't leave right now," I threatened, "I'll punch out your lights so hard you won't be watching  _anything_ for the next month!"

"Can't you see that poor little Lovi just wants to be alone with his true love?" crooned France in an irritatingly parodical tone, giving me his best impression of a mocking, soppy grin. "We need to give them privacy, Gilbert! After all, they're going to want it!" He gave me a lewd wink.

"If you're so interested in what I  _want,_ why don't you  _fuck off!"_ I told him furiously, but he only laughed at me. Gilbert stuck his tongue out.

(In case you were wondering, France and Prussia aren't _really_ that stupid. I've debated politics with France, in a public square, and I've seen Prussia's private library of books on aviation. They  _are_  capable of a higher level of thinking, which just makes their behavior all the more infuriating, really. They have this habit of  _pretending_  to be complete dumbasses, presumably for the reason that they  _like_ it when people they meet try to punch them multiple times in the face. I guess when someone's life is empty, sad, miserable, and shallow, they'll go to great lengths to obtain the attention of people more worthy than they are.)

"Guys!" Spain had finally,  _finally_ arrived- when someone rings the doorbell to your house, don't you generally  _come to the door_?- and  _please God,_ I prayed that it was to rescue me from the infuriating company of these two pieces of shit he called friends _._ "Let Lovi in, come on, Lovi, dinner's on the table…" He smiled at me, as unflappable as ever.

All of a sudden, although France and Prussia's sheer idiocy had temporarily distracted me from it, I remembered why I was so nervous about this. Everything faded into the background except for Spain, who had smudges of red sauce on his neck and was wearing a crisp white cook's apron, whose hair was even more messed up than usual, who looked relaxed and not at all tense and  _fucking gorgeous_.

And, by the way, France and Gilbert were having a kind of furious arm-wrestling, ear-tugging battle directly behind him, so when I say  _everything faded into the background,_ let me make it clear- that was no small feat for my poor infatuated brain to perform.

"Che! All three of you are incurable swine," I muttered to hide my embarrassment, pushing past them into the house, which had the faint, soothing scent of dried carnations. While Spain shooed his friends out the door, I wandered into the kitchen. Spain had made a pizza, which was sitting in the middle of the table and going about its business of looking and smelling amazing.

There was the sound of a door closing firmly, then Spain was walking into the kitchen and pulling out a chair for me. I sank into it, smiling weakly at the cheerful pattern of the tablecloth and avoiding Spain's eyes.

"How has your day been?" Spain asked, coming back to the table with a pizza cutter and two plates. He cut me a generous slice of the pizza.

"Teenage novel-ish," I said, folding the slice at the corners and biting into it. The combination of flavors Spain had chosen complemented each other perfectly. I'd always found something very intimate about biting into fresh pizza- not to mention that I loved thinking about Spain's sturdy hands rolling dough, his arms covered in flour to the elbows, the way he always flipped the round almost as high as the ceiling trying to show off to me- adorable. "A lot of driving. One very unusual first date." I snuck a look at him out of the corner of my eye, trying not to show any kind of emotion on my face.

"What did you think?" Spain asked, suddenly sounding hesitant. I swallowed the bite of pizza and looked at him; he'd seated himself in the chair opposite mine and was smiling at me in a slightly nervous way. I twisted up the corners of my mouth, thinking about it.

"I want to think some more about the things you wrote in those letters," I decided, putting down my slice of pizza and regarding Spain critically. I hadn't meant to be intimidating or offputting, but he looked even more nervous after this pronouncement. "I mean- I want to keep dating you," I added quickly, frowning and looking down at my lap. "It's just that… those were some pretty heavy things to say!"

"Oh, Lovi!" Spain squealed, completely ignoring this last bit; I had just enough time to shove my plate aside before he flung his arms around me across the table. I'd been frantically trying to calculate how he'd react to this statement, but the feel of his skin against mine- smooth, dry with flour, warmer than me- blew every thought I possessed temporarily out of my head. I fancied I heard them pouring out my ears in a sort of rush.

I let myself enjoy the way he smelled of tomato sauce for just a second before I pushed him off me. "Che, bastard, I'm eating! You don't need to overreact!"

"It's not an overreaction!" protested Spain, beaming at me.

"I might still decide to dump you," I warned, but even this dire pronouncement didn't seem to dent his sudden good mood. I'll admit that it felt good, to be able to make him happy like that, but a bigger part of me was worrying over the fact that now he'd be giddy and unflappable for the rest of the evening and wouldn't listen to a negative word I said. Which seems pleasant, but really gets old quite fast, especially when you've got a lot of heavy, serious war talk on your mind. Which I did, thanks to  _his_ letters.

Well, I supposed it could wait. It'd be a shame to ruin such an incredible good mood, anyway, and however important the things I had to say were, they could wait. Just because Spain seemed so happy that I'd agreed to date him now didn't mean that he wouldn't get tired of me and my shitty mood swings and stupid insecurities in time; even though he seemed to be over the moon for persuading  _me_ to date  _him,_ I felt I had to make sure  _he_  didn't want to leave  _me_.

So. Tonight, I'd try to just forget about all of that and have fun. Everybody was always telling me I was an awful moodkill, after all- I'd do my best to be fun and cheerful, or whatever, something like that. I'd have plenty of time in the future to tell Spain these things, since I was officially  _dating_ him now- which sounds ridiculous and immature, especially given the ambiguous nature of our relationship, but oh well.

There was a little voice in my head, screaming,  _If you can't tell him now, when are you going to be able to tell him?_ but I shooed it out of my mind, mostly because I didn't want to think about depressing things anymore, but also because Spain had gotten up from his seat and come around the table and was leaning down and smiling at me and asking, "Can I kiss you now?" in the most adorable way.

So I tipped my chin up and offered him a tiny smile, a smile instead of all these words I knew he didn't want to hear.

Spain's lips tasted like fresh tomatoes and mozzarella cheese- he'd probably been snacking on the pizza ingredients- and his whole body was warmer and more solid than mine. I wondered if I felt cold and delicate under his hands, but I didn't  _feel_ cold and delicate. The way Spain tucked his nose into the dip in the corner of my eye, letting his hands flick blindly down towards my waist, made me feel warm and complete, as if he was creating me again in every spot he touched. As if I hadn't known what I had been missing until he took it upon himself to show me.

I let myself kiss him long and slow and gentle, the slightly rough feel of his lips brushing against mine soothing all the frantic desperation that initial contact had kindled inside of me until all that was left was a passive need to be warm and close. I pulled away a centimeter and let our noses bump comfortably against each other, the back of my neck burning, hovering.

He let me hover a few seconds. Complicated, harsh thoughts were filtering into the open sunlit space that was my ribcage, but I did my best to ignore them, tracing a small circle in the middle of his shoulderblades over and over and over again.

He whispered, "Can I kiss you again?"

When  _are you going to be able to tell him?_

I kissed him again. And if everything  _didn't_ seem okay and resolved and clean during that one moment, if the world  _didn't_ seem perfect and beautiful and good-hearted- well, it came pretty damn close, at least.

I told myself that it was good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that is the end of spain's cheesy, cliché date afternoon lmao i'm sorry i'm not very original
> 
> btw in case anyone was wondering, i'm sort of going by the "it takes less time than it would irl for nations to travel to and from each others' houses" logic because otherwise shit gets complicated.
> 
> thanks for reading!


	8. Spain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 8: Spain  
> I’m Starting To Think Lovi Was Right About My Two Best Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: All the warnings that come along with the remarkable triple friendship of France, Spain, and Prussia. Profanity. Brief animal abuse mention. Brief sex mention.

Romano left at midnight. I'd managed to beg, plead, coax, barter for, or flat-out steal 27 kisses over the course of the evening. Yes, I'd counted.

Every time he kissed me, I remembered how real this all was. Romano, sitting in my kitchen, curled up on  _my_ couch, standing on  _my_  back porch, watching  _my_  television… holding  _my_ hand… yes, I was definitely the luckiest person alive! Amazingly lucky!

Unbelievably lucky.

I was still completely surprised over how well this had worked, actually- while I'd been with him, I'd been too elated and distracted to think about it, but now that he was gone, thoughts were crowding into the empty space he'd left with alarming speed. Romano was so hard to please, I'd thought maybe I'd have to do something extravagant to win him over to my side.

I already knew he thought of me as a close friend, but I had been nervous about bringing up the idea of us, well, dating. As boyfriends. It wasn't normally the kind of thing I got anxious about, but Romano wasn't the kind of person I normally went for either, and the way I felt about him definitely wasn't the way I normally felt about potential datemates. Less  _I'd kiss you, you have a nice ass,_ and more  _They should make a public television channel dedicated to the way you blink,_ do you know?

I flopped over onto the couch that Romano had so recently been sitting on and sighed happily, arms outstretched and hanging lazily over the ends. I'd really, really,  _really_ been nervous about messing this up. As a friend Romano was loyal as hell, yeah, but he didn't seem like the type to give a guy second chances when it came to romance. But he hadn't gotten so pissed off he'd punched me, he hadn't started verbally abusing my country's cuisine or music or culture, he hadn't gone off into a rant about my friends-

My friends! I'd promised I'd tell them how it went- I rolled over abruptly and crashed over the edge of the sofa, hitting the edge of the coffee table with a distinct  _crack._ Not bothering to get back up from the floor, I pulled my phone from my jeans pocket and opened my group chat with France and Prussia.

 **Gilbert:** Chickens are suffering all around the world francis! Because evolution favors their domestication so their genes get replicated as many times as possible, but theyre not happy being penned up by humans

 **Francis:** I'm not going vegetarian no matter what you say. A man needs meat in his diet in order to function his best! Are you suggesting that one of the world's biggest sources of protein simply be eliminated?

I actually winced at the gruesome picture Gilbert sent back.  _Chicken is one of Romano's favorite foods. I had better not show him that. Not that I'd ever let him see_ any  _of these texts, not if I want him to keep dating me._

Bending over the phone, I quickly typed a greeting.

 **Antonio:** Tonight went great! Are you guys still up

 **Gilbert:** TONI

 **Francis:** Antonio!

 **Gilbert:** It's only midnight you doof

 **Francis:** Tell us everything!

 **Antonio:** We had pizza and watched this new movie of Alfred's

 **Gilbert:** Did you fuck

 **Francis:** Gilbert! How unromantic! It's impolite to use such crude language when speaking about the affairs of the heart

 **Gilbert:** Whatever francis jfc

 **Francis:** (Did you?)

I narrowed my eyes at the screen from my uncomfortable position on the floor. Actually, the thought had barely crossed my mind. Romano'd given no sign that he wanted to go past kisses, and after the last time I kissed him, I'd decided it'd be a better idea to let him decide these things. We'd had a fun time talking and cuddling anyway.

 **Antonio:** No!

I pushed myself up from the floor and propped myself against the foot of the sofa, grabbing the half-empty wine bottle Romano and I'd been sharing and taking a swig. I loved my friends, but talking with them could get stressful, especially when Romano was involved in our conversations. Francis was lucky  _I_ was kind enough not to mention how  _his_  crush was in a relationship with someone else -more than a few times a week, that is. Seriously, I'm a saint. (If Gilbert has a special someone, thank God I don't know of them, because they'd have to be a  _hell_  of a person.)

 **Gilbert:** Well why the fuck not

 **Francis:** I knew you would ruin the mood. You should have let us help

 **Gilbert:** Yeah you should have! Even francis says so

 **Francis:** Possibly not this imbécile

 **Francis:** But me at least. I am the country of love after all!

 **Gilbert:** Country of love my ass

 **Gilbert:** I wouldn't go on a date with you if you paid me

 **Francis:** That is because you have no taste, mon cher!

See, I love these two, and I think they're good at a lot of things, but they're also bad at simple concepts like  _staying on topic._ Especially when the topic in consideration is something important and special.

 **Gilbert:** Better to have no taste than be forced to listen to your poetry

 **Francis:** My poetry is impeccable! Some of the world's greatest love poets have been Frenchmen!

 **Gilbert:** They didn't get it from you that's for sure

 **Francis:** Antonio, back me up!

 **Gilbert:** Toni agrees with me and the rest of the world francis

 **Gilbert:** Right toni

 **Francis:** Antonio?

I'd been wondering when they'd notice I was no longer participating in their stupid conversation. We'd had this discussion a billion times over, in a billion different ways- sometimes Gilbert poked fun at Francis's dress sense, not his skill with poetry; sometimes Francis insulted Gilbert's intellect, rather than his taste in men- and I'd found that it usually died down faster if I didn't attempt to take a side.

 **Antonio:** Yeah whatever guys! You're both handsome ok

 **Antonio:** Do you really need your big fat egos stroked every waking minute?

I'd also found that, experienced though both of them claimed to be in matters of the heart, it usually wasn't a good idea to follow any romantic advice they might feel inclined to give. I'd pretty much accepted at this point that Gilbert, Francis, and I all wanted different things out of a relationship- Gilbert was aromantic and disinclined to commit to any one person, Francis stuck around mainly for the sex, and I was in it for the companionship.

Except that with Romano, it was a little different. Not  _I enjoy your companionship,_ but  _I'd be unhappy without you, sometimes I think I need you._ Now that I'd finally asked, and he'd finally accepted, I was trapped between trying to reel him in and tie him close as fast as possible, and tiptoeing around him trying not to scare him off. I'm not sure if it's Romano's prickly nature or just me being stupid in love, but I always feel like I can't rely on him to stick by me- not that I have such a low opinion of myself, it's more of an irrational fear. Sometimes I  _know_ I'm being dumb and clingy, but I can't let him go, because what if the only reason he's still here with me is that I haven't cut him free?

Which is stupid, like he keeps saying, because if Romano wanted to leave me behind he'd have done it long ago, and I'd have had no say whatsoever in the matter. But surely it's okay to feel scared that someone so bright and important in your life might leave you? Surely it's pretty normal to feel protective over someone that's your close friend, your love interest?

He'd been upset when I'd tried to go further, the first time I kissed him- maybe I was moving too fast? But what if I moved too slow now, and he got tired of waiting for me? What if I'd made the wrong decision, and this was the last chance I was going to get to set this relationship on the right path, and I'd blown it?

I sighed. Whenever I stay up as late as that, I lose my mental filter and stupid thoughts start flying through my head. This probably meant I should go to bed soon- things would look better in the morning, with the sun on my face and everything visible and clear. I'd never liked the night, so ambiguous and mysterious,  _la luna_ always changing her mood. The sun was always there, dependable and solid and warm. If the moon was a person, she'd be a woman in a tight dress drinking too much alcohol, with a sharp-edged smile. Like a knife. The sun would probably look something like Romano…

Yep. I needed sleep. No question about it.

 **Gilbert:** I'm wounded toni

 **Francis:** Antonio you said you liked my poetry

 **Antonio:** When did I say that

 **Francis:** Two weeks ago, at Elizabeta's

 **Antonio:** I was drunk and assume no responsibility for anything I might have said that night

 **Gilbert:** Half the people he bangs are drunk anyway so maybe his lovers really do like his poetry

 **Francis:** You are just too crude. I cannot converse like this.

 **Antonio:** Don't you want to hear about my date?

 **Gilbert:** Dinner and a movie? Really toni? Sorry but its not exactly breathtaking

 **Francis:** I'd give you points for the homemade dinner, but I have to agree with Gilbert here

 **Francis:** You could have shown a little more

 **Francis:** Flair

I sighed. It was this again.

 **Antonio:** There's NOTHING WRONG with doing something simple on a date

 **Antonio:** What would you have done The flamenco on a table with a red rose between your teeth

 **Gilbert:** Francis would put the rose somewhere else

 **Gilbert:** But yeah thats the general idea

 **Francis:** Gilbert, please

Ah, the crashing repeat revelation that,  _why yes,_  it was  _way too fucking late_ for this conversation.

 **Antonio:** Just because its not amusing for you to hear about doesn't mean it wasn't an amazing date!

 **Antonio:** Besides, it was my first date with Lovino! That makes it super special!

 **Antonio:** And you didnt even mention the letters. Those were romantic

 **Gilbert:** Oh my god spare us your lovesick ranting

 **Francis:** Well, of course, the most mundane, unoriginal ideas can be transformed into a blossom of romance by the touch of your true love!

I was never  _entirely_ sure if these two were serious about the things they said, or if they were just pretending in order to annoy me. Either way, they'd been doing it for so long I'd forgotten how to tell the difference.

 **Antonio:** Aren't you happy for me?

I knew I sounded pathetic. And they were right- the movie and dinner had been so fun for me, but it was probably boring to listen to someone talk about it. But I'd taken this so seriously. I wanted them, my closest friends, to also take this seriously, because it was important to me. They  _knew_ how long I'd liked Romano- they knew how serious I was about him, and how I wanted this to be a long-term relationship.

Possibly even a forever relationship. With another nation.

I couldn't understand why they weren't showing more excitement.

 **Gilbert:** Sure

 **Francis:** Of course! I am always happy for you when you rediscover the joys of amour

 **Gilbert:** The fuck, What does that even mean francis

Could it be that they didn't think I could succeed at wooing Romano? Did they think that maybe he'd dump me, or that we'd just sort of fade out, like so many of my other relationships? Or maybe they thought I was just in it for the sex. After all, for all the literal hundreds of times I'd rambled on about Romano- his eyes, his hair, his hands, his voice, his nose- there'd only been a few times I'd felt they were really listening to me and what I was saying. Maybe they thought I was lovestruck and stupid, and I'd snap out of it soon enough now that I had what I'd wanted.

It was beyond me how anyone could think such a thing after  _meeting_ Romano- how could anyone not take him seriously? - but there's no accounting for taste, I guess.

 **Antonio:** Okay

 **Antonio:** I think I'm going to head to bed, good night guys

 **Francis:** Good night! I'll drop by sometime this week; you're obviously greatly in need of my superb romantic advice, and there's nobody better for that than me my dear

 **Gilbert:** Oh francis don't torture the poor man, he's actually In Love

 **Gilbert:** Not your dumb idea of romance and flowers and whirlwinds or whatever you said before

 **Francis:** Love is being swept up in a whirlwind romance of flower petals and fine wine!

 **Gilbert:** Yeah, that

 **Francis:** I'm flattered that you remembered, I think it's one of my finer lines!

 **Gilbert:** Is bull. Shit

 **Gilbert:** If toni follows your advice he's going to fuck up this thing thats important to him for whatever reason, cus the elder vargas ain't going for that kinda shit

My brow furrowed as I stared at this cryptic line. What was Gilbert saying? That Romano didn't go for "that type of shit"? What type of shit? Whirlwind romances of flower petals and fine wine?

 **Francis:** Like you know anything about love!

 **Gilbert:** I'm aromantic it doesn't mean that I can't love you piss soaked storm drain

And the brief glimmer of common sense was gone, possibly not to return again for a very long time. I pursed my lips.

 **Antonio:** It's too late at night to fight guys!

 **Francis:** I'm much too dignified to be fighting over text at all. This is a civilised discussion

 **Gilbert:** Its never too late for a good fight u wimp toni

 **Francis:** Civilised on one side, that is to say

 **Gilbert:**  You are a knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action-taking whoreson, glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pander, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest the least syllable of thy addition

 **Gilbert:** Whos not civilised now. Quoting the Bard baby

 **Antonio:** Holy shit, shakespeare

 **Francis:** Mon dieu Gilbert that is sinking too low

 **Gilbert:** You know you love it

 **Francis:** You are too cruel!

When Gilbert starts copy-pasting Shakespeare from the Internet, and Francis starts getting weepy about his unrequited love, it is  _really_ time to go to bed. I didn't bother texting again as I rose from my position leaning against the couch, still pondering that thing Gilbert had said. The sentence in itself was unremarkable, but it'd triggered some kind of burgeoning idea that was pressing desperately against the dull surface of my brain. I struggled for a second, but it was no use; my mind was clouded from wine and lack of sleep and that thing Romano's blush did to my thinking process.

I sighed. Whatever it was, it could wait until morning. After all, Romano'd agreed to date me, so I'd get to spend plenty of time figuring him out from now on, and if my jerks of friends had some kind of problem with that- well, they'd survive. They'd come around. They cared about me, somewhere deep down under all that posturing and ego and bluff. The important part was that Romano had agreed to date me, against all the odds, and I wouldn't risk that for  _anything_.

Yeah- I'd do it right. Everyone would see how good this was, now that they'd given me a chance. Love would pull me through it. There was no reason to be nervous. I'd never doubt my love for Romano, the anchor I used to pull myself through everything from tedious meetings to horrifying physical injuries. A love that strong would never fail me.

I flopped over onto the couch and fell asleep thinking about Romano.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope everyone enjoyed spain's first chapter. sorry for falling back on the super clichéd "texting scenario" but i wanted to introduce some of toni's connections besides romano. obv francis and gilbert aren't exactly being supportive friends
> 
> datemate: n. A gender neutral term to describe your partner before you're engaged or married.
> 
> by the way, gilbert is vegetarian haha  
> he's referring to the theory that the agricultural revolution was not beneficial to either the domesticated animals or the humans, but since the sheer increase in mass of edible food and the settling of humans in one place contributed to humans and the animals they chose to domesticate reproducing at a faster rate and spreading those particular genes, evolution encouraged this historical development. the theory of evolution cares not a rat's shit for the happiness of the individual, but only as to how many copies of which genes are produced. i mean that's not the whole idea but you get it right (sapiens by yuval harari) and gil would get anGRY as hell about the mistreatment of fowl in chicken/egg production factories and also the illegal pet bird trade you can fight me abt this 
> 
> as for france, i guess he's in love with england, who's in a relationship with america.
> 
> gilbert's copy-pasted shakespeare quote is from king lear, which i had to give a book talk on last week.
> 
> hopefully i'm endearing myself to my readers with these long and somewhat unrelated-to-spamano ANs, and not just annoying you. feel free to skip them-- all the important warnings will always be at the top. these bottom ANs are just me rambling and qualifying various things
> 
> i had a beta for this chapter and the next 2, the misty jewel@fanfiction.net! 
> 
> thanks for reading! this chapter was mostly filler and reflection, but the next chapter will have things happening i promise XD


	9. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 9: Romano  
> It's Sort of Like A Shitty Mystery Novel, But Without the Easy To Figure Out Bit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for profanity as usual. Kiss scene. Germany/Veneziano brief past verbal/physical abuse mention.

Nothing was clear. Everything was fucked.

"Spain doesn't take this relationship seriously! _" Exactly the opposite._

"Everything will be clear now that we're on a date."  _Haha, well, actually, about that._

"Spain won't be saying anything inconsequential now."  _Don't make me fucking choke._

So I had about one second, right after waking up the morning after the date, to feel like life wasn't completely, overwhelmingly confusing.

"Romano occasionally gets things _right_."  _So funny I forgot to laugh._

Horrible frustration and carefree elation fought a brief war in my head. As usual, the frustration won out. I stormed downstairs with my hair half-combed, cursing ambiguous Spanish lovers and the shortness of a single night and my own body's inability to resist tiny butterfly kisses down my neck. Veneziano was alone in the kitchen, and coffee was already on the table.

"Good morning!" he said, cheerful as always, oblivious to my pain as always, sliding a huge broad plate of pastries and fruit onto the table.

"Hmrgh," I replied eloquently, picking up the cup he set in front of me and knocking back most of the espresso with one swallow.  _Oh, caffeine… l'd leave Antonio behind and run away with you, I'm so in love._ I couldn't help but cackle, bitterly, in my mind. I was making mental boyfriend jokes already. My brain was a lost cause. "Beilschmidt not here?"

"No, he had to leave," lamented Veneziano, picking up a fruit tart and biting into it. "He's so busy with work these days, you know!" I wondered, blearily, if my brother was one of those people who thought that having a significant other who overworked themselves to the bone was endearing. Briefly, I contemplated being a good brother and saying something comforting.

Bad mood won out. "What else is new?" I drawled, sampling a pastry. Maybe Veneziano thought that Germany's devotion to his job made him manly. I thought it was stupid. Germany definitely wasn't poverty-stricken- nations sometimes did take human jobs, I'd run a restaurant in the United States for a while, but Germany's expenses were always covered by his government now.

"Ve, it's more than usual these days! He's barely had time to call me… I think he's working on some kind of new project, do you know, Lovi, but he hasn't mentioned anything specific yet."

I let Veneziano prattle on about Germany's mysterious new project, finishing another pastry and refilling my coffee cup, which was bad form, not that I cared one fuck. Veneziano shouldn't worry if Germany drew away a little- he was clingier than me, for shit's sake, what'd he expect the man to do? They'd already been all dating and lovey-dovey for over twenty-five years, you'd think they'd have settled into the old-couple-forever-bickering stage by now. Twenty-five was an entirely respectable length of time to be in a relationship for a nation, not to mention the years they'd been in love with each other before they got together- I was the one who'd had to listen to the majority of Feli's sighing and cooing, for your information.

Surely Veneziano was just imagining things- I'd seen the way Germany looked at him, the idiot fuck would never trade a job for the affections of my brother. Obviously.

Yes, he was stupid, an emotionally constipated piece of work- but not  _that_ stupid.  _My brother_  was a fucking _catch_ , dammit. It would be fine.

_Fine._

Okay, so  _maybe_  I was trying to convince myself of something I didn't really believe. I had my doubts about their relationship, all right?! And not just because I'd disliked Germany, as a person, for a long time. I mean, my God, almost a decade's worth of physical and verbal abuse doesn't just  _go away_ , no matter how long ago it was, no matter how good of friends they had been despite it or how much they loved each other now. No matter how  _happy_  Veneziano seemed now. Not when you're the asshole protective older brother.

Like it or not, it was my _job_  to be the asshole protective older brother. I'd- I'd never been good at it- I'd always been  _shit_ at it, let's be fucking honest, but letting Germany treat Feli that way during the war- I count that as one of my greatest failings. If we'd been citizens, I wouldn't have let Veneziano touch the man again, not with a ten-foot pole. Being a nation is different- if we held a grudge against everybody who'd ever treated us like crap, we'd hate the world. We all understood the necessity of rebuilding a working relationship with nations we'd previously gone to war against, if only out of sheer practicality.

Still.

It had been shit, those first few weeks with Veneziano trying to tell me  _he's not that bad, he's sorry, it was his boss's fault,_ and Germany alternately yelling through our locked door and pacing outside our doorstep. I'd been panicking, flooded with war memories from twenty years ago. Veneziano had been quite hysterical at times.

Spain had come around and sorted things out eventually- talked us all down with that easy smile, calmed me and Veneziano down to the point where we could agree to compromise. He'd been the one to open the door of our house to Germany, and we'd watched together as Veneziano hugged one of my greatest enemies so hard he looked like his eyes were popping out of their sockets.

Spain'd whispered in my ear,  _They'll be all right,_ and I'd felt the knot in my chest release just a tiny bit. Still, the fact remained: at the end of the day, Veneziano was the one tentatively holding his lover's hand and smiling at him. I was the one watching Spain leave me, doomed to be the third wheel for a quarter century.

Suddenly, I felt bitter. I didn't want to remember any of that shit- it was done, solved, over. Maybe whatever happened with their relationship was  _actually none of my fucking business_ \- what was I doing, fancying myself  _Veneziano's_ protector? At any rate, it'd do them good to be a little less sickeningly perfect for a while. I got up, putting my dishes into the sink, and muttered my usual excuses to Veneziano before making my escape.

I fancied he looked disappointed to see even my vaguely undesirable company disappear for the day. I've really done nothing to deserve the kind of loyalty my brother gives me.

Like I said before, most of the time I don't live or sleep in the house my brother and I share. I'd slept over at Spain's a lot in the past, but since the whole dating-romance thing I'd wondered if that would now somehow change. When I'm not at Spain's, I usually just crash in a hotel. Recently I've found myself ending up all over Italy, sometimes even venturing across the border. Once I made it all the way to Germany, over the course of a few months. It was the farthest I'd ever walked in one straight go- would've been farther, but I met Prussia in Munich and turned around in disgust.

Being on the move is just how I deal with things. World War II's still too recent, too raw of a wound, for any of us nations to just go back to the way things were before. It's affected all of us differently, of course. Veneziano spends hours in his room painting portraits of faces I can't connect to, no matter how I try, despite the fact I know they must be Italian citizens. Germany's got seven landlines connected to, and five mobile phones in, his house. Spain never walks around shirtless anymore when he gardens, because the scars he's collected over the years have finally gotten to the point where people would notice.

And I walk. There's this need to be away from here _,_  wherever  _here_ happens to be; to go away from myself. Walking doesn't make it go away, but staying still is unbearable. It's a habit I had then, and I'll probably still have for a long time after this. Anyway, after the last few days with Spain, I definitely had a lot I needed to walk off.

Besides, I wanted to take some pictures with the disposable camera. Spain had told me he wanted me to fill it up and then send the pictures to him, promising that he'd do the same. I couldn't help it- I was curious as to what kind of pictures he would send me.

I held the camera loosely in my hand as I strolled along the street, wishing I was in Venice; the gondolas were always worth seeing. Nevertheless, our house was in a fairly lovely area, close to Florence. I took pictures of a couple kissing by the side of a café, a pretty window box, a car, the make of which I hadn't seen since the 1980s, and a naked male statue. Spain apparently hadn't thought about how hard it would be to take pictures of myself when I couldn't see what the picture would look like; I tried my best with that, too, but I wished he would think things through a bit more.

Spain was just  _like_  that, though. It wasn't that he didn't plan for the future, didn't think about the past- it's just that he never let either the future or the past interfere with how he perceived the present. It was a skill I wished I had. I was always anxious, worrying or regretting or doublechecking, making a big deal out of small things like disposable cameras. (There'd been several times in my life I'd been positive that if I'd cared to visit any practicing psychologist, they'd have diagnosed me with an anxiety disorder in about a second.)

A stray cat- white with light brown spots- was sitting in the windowsill of a bakery, the sunlight hitting its fur in a very photogenic way. I stepped closer, wanting to get a shot, but just as I clicked the shutter the cat flicked its ear, as if hearing something, then leapt off the sill and disappeared around the corner. Annoyed, I peeked around the side of the building to see the cat rubbing up against a familiar figure.

"Lovino!" exclaimed Spain, standing up and stepping towards me. Almost instinctively, I backed up. What?- he was literally a shady guy in his twenties lurking in an alley, apparently with some magic cat-summoning power, all right?

"What are you doing here?" I snapped. The white cat twined around Spain's ankles, something silver glinting around its neck. Spain grinned easily at me, bending down to kiss my cheek; I probably blushed horribly.

"I wanted to visit you and Feliciano," he told me, leading me out of the alley and into the sunshine, which suddenly seemed especially golden and picturesque. "I wanted to discuss that European Commission probe- the one about bank tax credits."

"This European Commission probe that doesn't exist yet," I grumbled, shoving one hand into my pocket as we strolled along the street. "Sabatini and your Roldán have got it under control, you know. If you'd wanted to ask me or Feli, you could have emailed."

Spain smirked at me, casually linking our arms together. "Are you saying you don't want to see me?"

I snorted, drawing my arm away from him, but I couldn't help blushing again anyway. "I didn't say that, you fuck."

"Well, I wanted to see you," Spain admitted; he didn't seem especially hurt that I'd pulled away, fixing his bland smile on the streets ahead of us instead. "It's easier to talk about politics face-to-face, anyway!"

"No, it's not," I said flatly. "And as for the tax credits- what the hell else're we supposed to do? Our shitty tax system is procyclical, surely it's not discriminatory just making sure we've got an equal shot?"

"Francis disagrees," pointed out Spain, almost as if he thought I'd give a fuck about that bastard's opinion.

"Apparently, it's him and the rest of the fucking EU," I griped. "I'm telling you, all they want is an unfair advantage over us. If they start messing around  _now,_ they'd fuck up the whole economy- that's the only reason they're not all over us already, the greedy bastards. You're not thinking of giving in, are you?"

Spain just shrugged ambiguously, and I felt all the heat draining out of me. Spain hadn't engaged anyone in a serious political argument for at least two decades. I envied him the self-control. Most nations did make an effort not to bad-mouth each others' political strategies- we understood all too well that we had little to no power over any government fuck-ups that might occur- but occasionally the line got blurred.

Anyway, I took a hint from Spain and dropped the topic, although I still had no idea why he was here if he didn't actually want to discuss the tax credits. "You wanted to see Feli, right?" I asked instead.

"I haven't seen him in a while," Spain replied. "Has he been busy with something special?"

"Ask him yourself- I was just on my way back to our house," I lied fluidly, not wanting to reveal that I'd been feeling the itch to wander again. Spain has a fucking annoying protective streak that I'd felt that I'd rather not deal with at the moment. Besides, it seemed that his presence had mostly dispelled any impatience I'd been feeling. "We'll make it back in time for lunch, if you want to stay."

Spain gave me that blinding smile that he apparently liked to use in lieu of actually speaking words. I took that to mean "yes".

* * *

 

Veneziano almost fell over when I showed Spain in the door. I'm not sure whether it was from delight at seeing the guy, or shock that I'd actually "come back soon" for once in my sorry life. I let him take charge of Spain, chattering his ear off with all the latest humdrum news about how Germany had overheard Prussia talking to Austria who had mentioned that he'd taken Hungary out to a restaurant, or possibly on a reconnaissance mission, he (Germany) wasn't sure he'd heard him (Prussia) right. (Knowing Hungary, it was perfectly reasonable that he wouldn't be sure.) The house had a different quality in it, with Spain here and Germany gone. By which I mean that within five minutes of arriving, Spain'd helped himself to the milk in our refrigerator and was lounging on our sofa drinking it straight out of the carton. I stood in the hallway, watching them a second, carrying a tray of coffee mugs.

"Ludwig's making me a new easel," explained Veneziano, which at least explained the boards of wood.

"Have you been painting much lately?" asked Spain, sounding genuinely interested, and I squashed a pang of jealousy with difficulty. Spain had always taken an interest in Veneziano's art, it was nothing new, but I couldn't help it. Seeing Spain converse so innocently with my brother, that glint of interest in his eye, made me feel pathetic. Him liking me so much, paying attention to me, had been a rare, special thing for me for a long time, and it was always jarring to realize that I'd viewed a completely normal thing, albeit a nice, kind thing, as something way more than it was.

"Hmm…" Veneziano trailed off, and I suppressed a huff of impatience; it was a straightforward question, after all. But then Veneziano leaned close to Spain and whispered something in his ear; Spain stiffened, then whispered something back, their faces way too close together.

_Bastard._

Suddenly aware that I was just standing in the doorway like a fool, I strode into the room and put the tray down on the coffee table loudly. Spain and Veneziano flew apart, almost like they'd been caught kissing. I gave the both of them a sickly smile and sat down in a nearby armchair.

"Feli, you _have_  been painting a lot lately," I said, my voice coming out loud and overly bright. I wanted to make perfectly sure they knew I'd heard them. Spain looked confused, while Veneziano scrambled to pour the coffee. "You're always up in your room nowadays- at least, when that German bastard isn't here and you're not all over him."

Spain gave me a reproachful look. Veneziano's hand shook as he poured the coffee; a little spilled over the edge of the cup. If I hadn't been so irrationally pissed off, I'd have been confused about their behavior: I spoke this way about Germany all the time, and nobody'd ever taken me seriously.  _Well._

"Not even to spend time with your own brother," I continued harshly, still smiling, ruthlessly ignoring the glaring hypocrisy of the statement. "Ha, ha." I think some (idiotic) part of me had been seeking to lighten the weight of what I'd said before, but it had come off wrong- as my jokes always do.

Veneziano looked up suddenly, eyes blazing. "Lovi, if you wanted to spend time with me, you should have said so!" he cried. "I'll always make time for you!"

A little unnerved, I sat back in the chair. Spain's eyes were darting back and forth from me to my brother, but he didn't look confused, only alarmed. Veneziano shoved a cup of coffee at me.

"Oh," I said, belatedly. Veneziano nodded furiously at me.

"Feli, are you sure-" Spain said awkwardly. Veneziano thrust another cup of coffee in his direction, still with that look in his eyes.

"The other day I tried to paint Tuscany!" he said, wildly. "But I don't think I got the colors right… it's a shame!"

"Is he sure wh-" I started, thoroughly confused, but Spain glanced at me and shook his head slightly; I burned with the desire to tell him to fuck off and interrogate Feli for all he was worth, because there was something fishy going on here, but I restrained myself.

There was an awkward pause.

"What part of Tuscany, Feli?" I finally asked, if only to ease the tension. Veneziano flopped in relief and started babbling about horizon lines and hills and using trees to draw the contour of the eye. Across from him, Spain gave me a hard look.

 _What just happened?_ I did my best to communicate to him, telepathically of course. If only being boyfriends came equipped with mind-reading powers. Then again, I wasn't sure I wanted Spain to know everything I'd been thinking about him in the last few days.

But Spain only turned his head and made a comment to Veneziano about Tuscany wines, a clear dismissal. I sighed, sipping my coffee and watching their animated conversation.

I'd known Veneziano was polyamorous for a long time, of course. It had never bothered me- I didn't give a fuck who my brother was letting into his life as long as he kept them away from me. But I'd never considered that Veneziano might want to get involved with Spain until now. The two were close- had been closer than me and Spain, at one point- was  _Spain_ polyamorous? He'd once made a joke about wanting to marry both me and my brother- it'd creeped me out, he'd sounded like a collector trying to get the full set. Maybe him and Veneziano… but…

D'you know what I said before about taking little things way too seriously? I rolled my eyes at myself. There was literally no evidence that my boyfriend of two days was cheating on me with my brother. That was a stretch even by  _my_ remarkably fearful imagination. I was probably just being paranoid about Spain, as usual.

Still, that had been something, and I didn't like the idea of Spain and Veneziano trying to keep something from me. I couldn't entirely manage to dispel the phantom that had popped up in my head the moment I saw them fly apart, lurking in the back of my mind (okay, maybe more like  _shrieking in suspicion like a fucking fire alarm at the very forefront of my mind,_ so what?)

And  _no_ , actually, I  _couldn't_ just manage to leave it be.

Spain might not betray someone's trust for me, but (although it's not a fact I usually like to broadcast to the world) the whole mafia side of Italy? That's  _me,_ not Veneziano. I was sure I could get whatever it was out of him, and, more importantly, I was sure that I had to. If he had some kind of problem, it was my business to know, too- humans might tout the idea of personal privacy about like a battlecry, but Veneziano and I are linked by our nationhood, and I had no idea what the nature of the thing upsetting him was- whether it was just a personal thing, or something more than that.

Keeping secrets from each other could be downright dangerous, and I was going to remind him of that.

Confident in this goal, I pulled the disposable camera from my pocket and offered Spain and Veneziano a crooked smile. "Pose, motherfuckers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> akhsrjd ok i love germany/italy as a ship but the way germany treated veneziano during wwII (especially in the anime) makes me super uncomfortable somETIMEs and i feel like that would definitely have to be dealt with for them to have a healthy relationship in the present. (also romano would overreact like hell) romano accepting germany's relationship with veneziano is another thing i sort of want to cover.
> 
> i got the information on tax credits from the financial times: may 4, 2015 12:50 pm: italy and spain defend bank tax credits to brussels. James Politi in rome, Tobias Buck in madrid and Christian Oliver in brussels (www. ft .com/intl/cms/s/0/f4da20aa-ef12-11e4-a6d2-00144feab7de.html#axzz3ZO5Tq18B)
> 
> the cat's design is nekotalia spain.
> 
> thanks for reading!


	10. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 10: Romano  
> If I See A Train Again When Hell Freezes Over, It Will Be Too Soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for profanity, a little bit of violence

It had been two weeks since my first date with Spain, and I had two problems.

First, I hadn't seen Spain in two weeks. Which wouldn't have been such an unusual thing, back when we weren't dating, but now that we  _were_ dating- let's just say I'd found it considerably more difficult not to have him around, for physical reasons. I missed watching the way he walked. I missed seeing his smile spread across his face. I missed kissing the tip of his nose. I even missed that ugly mole on the back of his neck, which always used to piss me off. (It didn't help that he never remembered to text me back, either. Not even when I asked how the glorious battle for the tax credits was going, can you imagine?)

I'd started to realize that I had no idea how to ask him to spend time with me- we'd kind of just fallen into a habit of him always being the one to ask me, although I'm not sure why. As you may have ascertained by now, I wasn't all that sure about a lot of things when it came to Spain.

Fortunately, I'd eventually worked up the nerve to ask him to take me someplace. Unfortunately, we were going to go somewhere and do something that I'd hoped I'd never have to in my life- and it all had to do with my second problem: I hadn't seen  _Germany_  in two weeks.

I know what you're going to say- no, I was  _not_ going soft. At all.

Except, maybe, for the way my brother stared into his morning cup of coffee with those horrid googly puppy-dog eyes he does, even when he knows they have  _no_ effect on  _anyone at all. No,_ I was not moved deep within the very center of my emotions by that pitiful gaze. I was just damn sick of seeing such an annoying expression on his face! It totally didn't make me want to go out and do whatever it fucking took to get him to smile again!

Actually, what it  _would_ have made me want to do was to go and punch in the skull of whoever'd been the cause of all that drippy sadness, except that I'd already wanted to do much worse things to Germany ever since I'd met him. It's not that Veneziano was so needy he couldn't get along without his precious boyfriend, but it seemed that they'd had some kind of fight (I  _know,_ I almost went into fucking shock, too) and instead of taking the time to patch it up, dear Ludwig had left for an 'essential' business meeting that evening. He hadn't been back since, nor had he exchanged more than a few terse texts with Veneziano.

And after Veneziano had told me  _that,_ I didn't have the heart to try and interrogate him on anything else.

Hence the moping. I  _hate_ it when Veneziano mopes. He's always just cheerful enough to be pulling the "Of course I'm fine, dear  _fratello,_ you're imagining things!" excuse and making you feel stupid and patronizing, but then as soon as he thinks you're not paying attention he sort of goes quiet and stares at the wall and hums melancholy French ballads under his breath.

I could deal with my brother being a downer for a couple of weeks, but I drew the line at the French ballads.

My initial attempts to cheer him up ( _"Hey, the asshole isn't worth enough to be worrying over, you know"_ and " _I always warned you he was a dickfuck with no manners"_ were two of the more successful ones, if that gives you any idea) didn't go over very well, so I'd contacted Spain, and Spain had asked Prussia, and Prussia had told Spain that his stick-up-the-ass  _brüder_ never told  _him_  anything, then told Spain to tell me that I should man up, be an awesome older brother like  _he_ was, and go and ask Germany myself if I was so curious, and that if I was afraid of a guy like  _West_  I was even more of a chickenshitting invertebrate than he'd thought I was (his words, not mine), and apparently France just  _had_ to stick in his two cents and say that I should do it for the sake of furthering this wonderful lovely love between two lovers or some shit, and then Spain had told me what they had told him to tell me.

In short, Prussia'd challenged me on my honor as Feli's brother to go grab Germany by the balls and twist.

So of course I couldn't let such a piece of shit get one-up over me, even if I  _was_ above him and his petty rivalries, so I'd arranged to tag along with Spain, one of the days he and his friends were going to hang at Prussia's house, and then find Germany from there.

If that sounds like an  _absolutely terrible idea_ that I  _never_ should have agreed on, you have understood that statement  _exactly_ the way I wanted to say it.

So, let me tell you about the time I fucked up just about everything in my life for the sake of my brother's relationship with the macho potato.

* * *

Spain was kissing me. Hard. With tongue. His hands were gripping my waist, his eyes were closed in passion, it was all very hot and sexy.

The only problem was that this was a public train, everybody was now looking straight at us, and France had let out the most piercing wolf-whistle I'd ever heard in my life.

I shrieked and pushed Spain off me; he crashed into France (it was a very crowded compartment) who crashed into Prussia, who gave a gleeful yell and grabbed the both of them in what looked like a deliberate attempt to send everyone in the vicinity crashing to the floor.

Several people were on their feet immediately, yelling, " _Assaltare!"_ and " _La vergogna!"_ I leapt to my feet, too panicked to be angry, and extricated Spain from the pile of steaming shit that was his friends lying on the ground laughing like madmen.

"Sorry!" I yelled as loudly as I could, trying to shush the compartment. "It's fine, it's fine, sorry, it won't happen again! You  _bastard,"_ I added, lowering my voice and shoving my face close to Spain's own, " _what_  in the name of God almighty were you  _thinking? Are_ you  _thinking_?"

Spain yammered apologies to nobody in particular as the train screeched to a halt, thank fucking God, and France and Prussia picked themselves up. The second the doors opened I was dragging Spain out by his arm, while people yelled behind us and Prussia wheezed maniacally. It had only been a 30-minute train ride, and I already felt like screaming. An auspicious beginning to the trip, it was not.

" _What in the hell did you_ do  _that for?"_ I exploded the moment we reached the waiting area for our next train. " _In public! Figlio di puttana! You've got shit for brains, vai a morire amazzato, I won't mourn over your mangled body either!"_

There was a flurry of movement as at least twenty people shifted to get away from us. I ignored them. Spain, pale-faced, looked like he was flailing for words that weren't there. I'd probably scared the skill of communication right out of him.

"It was an honest mistake," put in France weakly. I rounded on him.

"You two! Sitting there laughing on the floor like  _carogne_!  _Non mi rompere i coglioni,_ you're never any help,  _stay the fuck out of this_!"

"Come on, Romano," said Prussia, raising both hands in what was probably supposed to be a placatory gesture. "Toni didn't mean it."

"I'm sorry, Lovi!" put in Spain, grabbing at my hand, which was dangling at my side. I jerked it away from him.

" _In public!_ You wrote that whole fucking  _letter_ about homophobia and relationships and shit, did you absorb  _nothing_ of your own words?" Ignoring France and Prussia's surreptitious, curious stares, I ranted on: "You're lucky none of those people back there got really offended, or shit could have gone down! You kiss like that in  _private,_ you utter  _bastard,_ you, you-" I was actually growing incoherent.

"People are staring," Prussia stage-whispered behind his hand. France had his face buried in our train schedule; apparently, much though he professed to adore everything about the business of love, once the situation got shitty he'd suddenly lose interest in proceedings. I gave Prussia my best impression of a threatening  _eat my shit_ glare, but he only cackled and prodded the studiously uncomfortable France in the ribs. (I don't think anything I'll  _ever_ do will scare that guy- that doesn't mean I'll stop trying, he's a pain in the fucking ass.)

"I didn't think, I'm sorry, Lovi," said Spain earnestly, seizing the pocket of time in which I'd stopped cursing him to hell nonstop to speak again. "I just missed you a lot, and I didn't think about how there were other people there, I mean… you looked so cute, I couldn't help myself!"

"Flattery won't get you out of this one," I said coldly, throwing myself down on the bench next to him and folding my arms. "You sound stupid."

Spain wisely shut up, and we spent the next fifteen minutes till the train came waiting in blessed, utter silence.

* * *

It didn't last. Of  _course_ it didn't last.

We were thirty minutes into the trip from Spain to France, which was supposed to take around seven hours, when France, Spain, and Prussia decided to start swapping colonization stories. In German, of course, so the people around us wouldn't have to be subjected to the spectacle of three men in their early twenties arguing about who'd owned the most of Africa at any given moment in time.

"You do know that colonizing other countries in order to kill off their natives and sap their natural resources was a  _bad_ thing to do, right?" I interjected after a while. "Or did you forget about that bit of the good ol' days, then?"

Prussia waved a hand. "It's all in the past now!" he dismissed, "and, anyway, taking care of the kids was fun."

"That's not- what kids?" I said, momentarily confused.

"Why, the young nations, of course!" said France, winking at me in a decidedly disturbing way. "You were under Spain's control, were you not?" The way he said it made my stomach roll; Spain looked mildly uncomfortable, but he was still smiling.

"So what?" I snapped, suddenly eager to end the conversation I'd inadvertently made myself a part of. "He didn't exactly  _colonize_ me, he just ruled over me for a while. And it's not that simple- name me just one of those  _kids_  who  _liked_ being under another country's control, and I might revise my opinion. It's just you powerful shits who liked manipulating them."

"We were young and foolish," protested France. "Besides, you're guilty of the same- Libya, for example, that was you, wasn't it?"

"The difference is that I regret it now," I said coolly, "and I don't talk about Libya as if she was, like, my  _daughter_ or something. You don't have the right to speak so lightly about people you treated like horse manure."

"Aww, Romano, lighten up!" whined Prussia, apparently getting bored with taking the world seriously for once. "We all know why you're so sensitive about this shit, it's not because you actually give a damn about the countries we ruled over, that was ages ago!"

"It still affects them today," I protested. "I've talked to them! And what do you  _mean,_ you know why I'm so 'sensitive'? Sensitive about what? Antonio, what the hell are they talking about?" Spain gave me an uncomfortable, tight-lipped grin, but didn't reply. "Antonio?"

"Obviously, my dear, this business is quite near and dear to your heart because you still resent the way Antonio treated you while you were under his control," said France smoothly; Spain and I both whipped our heads around, horrified, to stare at him. "You feel that he may still think of you as a child? Or, perhaps, that the balance of power in the relationship is not equal, because he was your ruler once?"

"Bull crap, Francis," snorted Prussia, who was looking uncomfortable. "Lovino's cool with that shit, aren't you, Lovino? You don't see Toni as some kind of  _father figure,_ do you? Because, let's be honest, he'd make a fucking terrible parent-"

" _Francia_ , you don't know anything about anything," cut in Spain, so coldly that all of us were temporarily shocked into silence. "Why don't you mind your own business?"

There was a small pause.

"Well, if you don't want my advice-" began France, looking distinctly affronted; before I knew it, Spain was on his feet, yelling into France's face, and then France was yelling back, and Prussia was yelling just trying to be heard over the din and then random people on the train started yelling at all four of us because Spain and France looked like they were going to come to blows.

"Toni," I begged, tugging at Spain's arm, "it's not worth it, he's not worth it, just sit down, don't be an  _idiot_ , you fuck!" I yanked him down into his seat again and pressed him there; his eyes were dark and he refused to look at me. Across from us, Prussia was nervously patting a furious France's arm as he, too, sank reluctantly back into his seat.

The people in our compartment were giving us dirty looks; Prussia whispered that he thought maybe we'd get reported to the conductor, and maybe a good police chase would lighten Spain and France up a bit, whereupon I  _very quietly,_ so as not to set anyone off again, cussed him out with the worst swearwords I knew and told our group we were getting off at the next stop. Five hours ahead of schedule.

* * *

Then we had to find another train to France.

The train station was crowded. "You want to stay here and watch the civilized Western nation sulkbabies? I'll find train tickets," offered Prussia generously; before I could express my negative opinion of this plan of action in the strongest language possible, he was gone.

I turned to look at France and Spain, who I hadn't seen really angry at each other since the 1890s, and who were now sitting with their noses in the air as if they'd never even deign to look at each other again.

"Okay, kiss and make up already, please," I said awkwardly, folding my arms and staring them each down in turn. "Because if either of you are going to fuck up one more time while we're utilizing public transportation, I'm going to tell Prussia he  _can_  do that thing with the birdseed we managed to convince him not to three weeks ago."

Two pairs of eyes slid to me, as if silently gauging how serious I was about carrying out this threat. I tipped my chin up, glaring down at them with all the disciplinary glory I was capable of (which wasn't much, but hey, at least I tried!)

"Lovino,  _mon cher, je suis désolé,_ I'm afraid you wouldn't understand," said France, looking tired all of a sudden.

"Don't speak to him in French," snapped Spain, glaring at France sideways.

"I'll speak to him how I like-" started France at the same time I snapped, "I know French!"

Everyone paused for a second; I narrowed my eyes at Spain, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. Was this some kind of sensitive topic that I just didn't understand? Some kind of personal history between the two of them?

"You were talking about Spain's rule over me," I said carefully, watching as both of them stiffened. "Bonnefoy, you're wrong as hell, by the way, but I don't understand why it's such a big deal!" I paused; both of them stared back at me sullenly. I tried a different tack. "Does Gilbert know, then? Can I ask him, if you two are going to be all tight-lipped about it?"

"Gilbert knows nothing about this," declared France loftily, "why would we tell  _him?_ He would not understand."

I stared at him, appalled by his superior attitude. "Well, believe it or not, right now he's actually acting the most sensibly out of you three, so why don't you just-"

"Yeah, Francis! You heard the kid!" Prussia's hand crashed down on my shoulder with the force of a missile; as I choked and clutched at my arm, he tossed the train tickets at France's face. "You should listen to me for once, 'cause thanks to me we're leaving on a train to Germany in ten minutes!" he informed us as France spluttered.

"Hey, you  _asshole,"_ I grunted, massaging my shoulder and turning to the other two, determined at least to get a hint of what the matter was- I was turning into fucking Sherlock Holmes over here, trying to figure out Veneziano's relationship problems, and now this shit with Spain. "Antonio… is this about what you said in one of those letters, or something?"

The look on Spain's face confirmed my idea in an instant, but he didn't say anything, just pressed his lips together. I glared at him, hoping to pressure some kind of clarifying word out, but either he didn't want to say it in front of France and Prussia (I couldn't blame him, if that was the case) or he just didn't want to talk about it in general. Sometimes he gets like this, all quiet and sullen like one of those turtles he likes so much, and poking him only makes him even more pissed off.

"Fine," I snapped bitterly, losing patience; I grabbed the tickets from France's lap and turned away. "Be like that, see if I fucking care. Just  _try_ not to start anything else until we get to Germany and I can get away from the three of you, all right? That's not so hard, is it?"

* * *

Apparently, it  _was_ that hard.

Spain refused to cheer up for most of the rest of the six-and-a-half hour train ride to Berlin, which was a fucking pity because I'd wanted to seize the opportunity to talk to him some more about the things we'd touched on the last time we'd seen each other.

He'd been upset already, so I'd tried to ease into the conversation- and I'm not very good at  _easing into conversations,_ if you hadn't guessed that already, so it came out more like, "Hey, Spain, bastard, we should, uh, talk about something you're interested in, like, tomatoes! How are your tomatoes! Are they good!" And Spain obviously did his best to humor me, but there's only  _so_ much you can say about tomatoes before you start to feel like your head will explode, and during one of the longer awkward pauses in the conversation Spain gave it up and pulled out a book and started reading it and that was that.

Then Prussia decided it'd be a good idea to buy what looked like the food cart lady's entire store of shitty packaged snacks, and let's just say that I'd never seen anyone need a sick bag on a train before and I never want to again.

At this point, I was almost starting to wish I'd taken up on Spain's original offer to drive me, which was saying  _a lot_ because I would rather do almost  _anything_ than be stuck in a car with Spain, France, and Prussia all at once for more than a few seconds at a time. However, it seems that some people don't give two fucks about checking whether they are in a private or a public area before choosing to start watching hot-pepper challenge videos online with the sound on so loud that screams come audibly out the headphones. I was forced to conclude that some people simply carried pure chaotic energy around with themselves, wherever they went, and there was not one thing I could do about it. Not for lack of trying.

I did manage to fall asleep for a few hours, but that small victory was immediately offput by the fact that (according to Spain and France) while I'd been asleep, Prussia had drawn a very detailed parrot in fine-point Sharpie on my face. I almost- _almost-_ forgave him, because Spain was smiling for the first time since we'd gotten on the train, and he took a picture of me with his disposable camera.

By  _almost,_ I mean that I cussed Prussia out so thoroughly that I sounded like a snake who'd swallowed an angry movie critic. (I did bother to lower my voice to a whisper, but that only made it sound like I was summoning Satan) Also, I slashed his face with the marker, but he only laughed and said I'd have to work harder than  _that_ to ruin his amazing good looks.

I was ready to take him up on that challenge, but then France hit us both over the head with a rolled-up fashion magazine and told Prussia that the marker actually improved his looks, because it drew attention away from his unfortunate facial features. So Prussia lunged for  _him_ , and then Spain held down France's arms while Prussia drew something a lot more inappropriate than a parrot on his cheek. And then France managed to grab the marker from Prussia.

When we exited the train, Prussia looked like a five-year old had used his face for a "Draw your emotions" art assignment, I had a parrot on my cheek, and France was sporting a floral scarf thrown around the entire left side of his face in the most awkward position possible. And Spain looked like the cat that'd got the cream, possibly because he'd snapped photographs of the whole incident and he was thinking it would make fantastic blackmail material later.

Don't get me wrong, I was happy that everyone was happy again, but sometimes I do  _so_ wish that my lover would, on occasion, derive joy from things that  _don't_ involve shrieking in Archaic Latin and rolling on the floor like a puppy with two other grown men in public.

At least we'd finally made it to our destination, no thanks to my idiot companions. "Welcome to Berlin!" announced Prussia proudly, throwing out his arms regally as we exited the train station, for all the world like he  _wasn't_ wearing Sharpie all over his face and a t-shirt that said BIRDING: CHEEP TRILLS. "Home to air good enough to be canned and sold! The gay capital of the nineteenth century! It was mine before West had it!"

I breathed in deeply; maybe it was just that I'd spent the last several hours holed up in train compartments that smelled like mold and fake air freshener, but the evening air did taste crisp and wonderful. I was willing to forego my century-long, constant irritation with Germany for long enough to say that, in the fading light of the day, a quick tour of some of the bars deeper in the city, with Spain by my side and France and Prussia there to pay for the drinks, actually seemed appealing.

Or, at least, much more appealing than what I was going to go and do, which was go and see if I couldn't catch Mr. Emotionally Constipated at the end of presumably another long day full of meetings. And talk some sense into him.

_Me._

Talking sense into  _him._

The idea was seeming less intelligent and more dung-brained by the minute, but I had to at least do  _something-_ if for no other reason than the fact that I had  _not_ suffered through the God-awful train ride I'd just been forced to endure in order to turn around and give up.

Spain touched my elbow, as if sensing my thoughts, or possibly just reading the expression on my face. "You don't have to do it today, you know," he told me gently. "Gilbert's going to take us on a tour of some new attractions in Berlin, we're going to just hang out and have a few drinks… you could come with us, if you like. If, you know, you still want to be around us after that whole trip."

I let myself imagine it for a second- me and Spain, rambling through Berlin, leaving France and Prussia in some bar and finding ourselves alone on some romantic moonlit walk in a city known for its good beer and good cheer. He'd kiss my cheek, and we'd sneak off together to sit on a park bench somewhere kicking our feet and having deep conversations and- well, I don't need to tell you everything.

It would be great, was the point. My first time in two weeks to spend time with Spain, and the morning had already gone so terribly, and I was going to trash it to go talk to a probably sleep-deprived and shit-tired German potato bastard who would probably projectile vomit at the very sight of me.

Oh, well. Family comes first, even when it hurts.

"Wish I could, anything would be better than voluntarily spending time with Mr Moodkill," I joked, trying to keep the atmosphere light in case whatever happened before was still bothering anyone. "Even consuming alcohol in the company of you guys. But I better get it over with. Have fun tonight." Impulsively, I leaned over and pressed a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. "Make time for me in your schedule, bastard, because when we get back home, we need to talk."

Before he could reply, I ripped away from him, walking quickly in the other direction.  _He was all brave starting the conversation with those letters; I won't let him back out of it now._ Only when I'd reached the corner did I look back; Spain had turned away and was chattering and pointing out something to France, while Prussia looked smug. I sighed. For now, I'd have to trust that he'd do as I'd said- there was nothing I could do to start fixing things, not in Berlin.

"Now," I muttered, "on to the boss battle."

A movie-soundtrack-esque song was conveniently blaring from the nearest doorway; I squared my shoulders, set my teeth, and prepared myself for the oncoming struggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahahaha i had way too much fun with this chapter. hope you enjoyed it!  
> also romano REALLY needs to stop putting off that talk with spain, my god.
> 
> prussia's t-shirt is from zazzle . com  
> i am not going to translate all of lovi's insults, but you can look them up if you really want to know XD i got them all from quick google searches for "italian insults"
> 
> thanks for reading!


	11. Spain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 11: Spain  
> Listen, And I Will Introduce To You My Friends' Idea Of A Heart-to-Heart Conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for profanity, alcohol, really fucking dumb innuendos, and implied violence.

I stood there, frozen, my lips burning from Romano's quick kiss, but my neck going cold at his brief words -  _we need to talk._ That phrase, I'd found, could mean almost anything- but I assumed that it was about our relationship, something he had a problem with, something he'd noticed- I glared at the ground, cursing France for his cheap jabs at my pride. I hadn't meant to lose my cool like that in front of Romano.

He'd seen me at my weakest and worst far too many times in the past. Now, as his super-awesome and supportive boyfriend, I needed to let him know that I'd gotten over all that and was ready to take this next step forward in our relationship.

A good way to do that would be to have that talk with him, instead of cringing away from the idea of romantic responsibility like a frightened child. It had been me who'd written the letters, overcome my fears, because I'd so wanted to do right by him- now I'd follow through with my promises.

Quickly, I shook myself out of my dazed state and hurried to catch up with my friends. If nothing else, that would give me a good excuse to invite Romano over to my house again. I'd been a bit worried when he hadn't shown any signs of wanting to meet up over the past two weeks, but I'd figured maybe he'd just needed some space. It  _had_ been kind of a lot to shove on him all at once.

"Where should we visit first?" France was asking Prussia as I fell into step with them, just in time to see  _that_ smile spreading slowly over Gilbert's face.

* * *

 

Berlin is famed for its beer tours. Gilbert Beilschmidt, on the other hand, apparently never inherited his citizens' skill for beer tour-guiding. The part that he had trouble with, specifically, was the part where you  _don't_ get utterly, flabbergastingly drunk at the very first bar you visit.

"You should try and keep  _some_ of your liver intact,  _mon cher_ ," France drawled as we trudged (more like pranced, in Prussia's case) out the door. "If only so you have enough of it left to ruin during the rest of this demented bar crawl."

"We're  _nations,_ Francis," moaned Prussia, flapping a hand at him. "Our bodies regenerate!"

"Your liver may still be miraculously functional, but you left your brain somewhere back in the 1700s," muttered France disdainfully, catching hold of his hand as he stumbled on the curb. "Someday I'll buy you a dictionary so you can learn the word  _pacing,_ and then maybe this won't happen  _every single time,_ eh? What do you say?"

"Aaaargh, Toni, Francis isn't making sense again," babbled Prussia, clinging to France's hand and giggling. "Shutup, Francis, this is gonna be the greatest, the greatest night ever!"

"Is he okay?" I inquired to France, jabbing a thumb in Prussia's general direction. I wasn't too worried- we'd all had plenty of experience dealing with alcohol, after all- but Prussia was now cat-calling a large group of burly, bald men clad in matching leather jackets, and I only felt it might be polite to ask.

France snorted, yanking on his arm in a futile attempt to free himself from Prussia's grasp. "He's in wonderful shape, my dear friend; it's  _us_  that will be in trouble if those  _voyous_ over there get any angrier than they already are."

I flashed him a grin. "You don't think it might be fun to-"

"Whatever you're about to suggest, suggest it  _later!"_ yelled France, at the same time that Prussia gave a loud wolf-whistle and the men across the street gave an even louder roar of anger.

"Besides," France had time to shout before we grabbed Prussia by the armpits and ran for our immortal lives, "you are a single man no longer,  _mon ami!"_

* * *

 

" _That_ is so completely  _not_ what- I meant, Francis!" I wheezed, leaning against the graffiti-splattered, grimy wall of the alley we'd darted down. "No, no, no, I don't even- want to  _think-_ about-"

"You didn't even- let me finish- the  _sentence, mon cher Espagne!"_ choked France, equally short of breath- and just about  _dying_ of laughter on top of that.

" _Good,"_ I spat murderously, grabbing a tipsy Prussia by the collar to prevent him from wandering down the dark, shifty, suspicious-looking street. " _Don't."_

"As you wish," said France, flipping one hand as he straightened up and brushed off his clothes, peering up and down. "We should probably get back to somewhere in this curséd city that actually resembles civilized society, no?"

"Yeah, probably," I agreed, looking back the way we'd come; it seemed that we had lost our tail. We  _had_ had plenty of practice, after all. "We could grab a couple more drinks, I think-"

" _Heart-to-heart time_!" interrupted Prussia all of a sudden, so suddenly and loudly that both France and I flinched; he took the opportunity to yank himself free of my hand and sling a chummy arm around the other two of us. "Toni, we're going to talk about  _your_  feelingsto-tonight, you don't have to say anything you're not comfortable with, except you  _do_ really, because we're your best friends, and-"

"You're spewing nonsense, friend," I said doubtfully, patting his hand and looking questioningly at France- a whole epic mob chase around half of Berlin, involving cops, three bar brawls, and a motorcycle _,_ and  _now_ was when he chose to open his mouth and say something? (Of course, Prussia did tend to ramble when he was drunk.) "One too many support-group meetings, eh? Let's get back to your flat, come on, we can wait up for Lovino-"

"Lovino, Lovino Vargas!" yelled Prussia, releasing me to stick his pointer finger in the air like some kind of deranged British nanny. "The  _man_  of the  _hour!_ Or, something like that," he added in a mumble, dropping his arm and giving me a half-doubtful glance. "The  _topic_  of tonight's conner- cover- _\- conversation."_

I sighed.  _Why_ me _? What've_ I  _done to piss him off today? Am I going to get the sex talk again?_ "Okay, if this is about some new seduction technique you read about in some ladies' magazine in a public restroom, I  _don't_  want to hear it, and-" I glanced around; night was quickly falling, "I  _really_ think we should get out of here, you know." Berlin was a big city; you never knew what kinds of people you'd find lurking around, and if I'd been in the mood for a fight before, I wasn't now. "Come on, Gil."

"No." Prussia smiled at me sagely and then, to my horror, took me forcefully by the shoulders, steering me into a sitting position against the dingy wall. "Come, come, Francis, Toni, my friends, we are going to bare our hearts to each other in brotherly unity tonight!"

"He has gone completely, categorically insane at last, _"_  France stage-whispered as Prussia sat him down next to me and then plopped down himself with crossed legs, smiling expectantly at both of us.

"God strike me down the day  _Gilbert Beilschmidt_  counsels  _me_  on feelings,"I hissed at him around Prussia's shoulder.

France smirked. "Ah, then you should prepare for a divine intervention sometime in the next ten minutes, then,  _mon cher,"_ he pointed out, "because the man seems quite serious."

"He's practically drunk off his  _ass_ -" I started to say furiously, but Prussia cut me off.

"Me 'n Francis, we have been-  _talking,"_ he explained to me, precisely serious in the way he only was when he was, well, practically drunk off his ass. "'N we are, how d'you say this delicately. Concerned. About Vargas, and his suitableness for you, as a romantic interest."

"You and Francis talking, that's always dangerous, _"_ I interjected, a second before the meaning of his words really set in. "Wait-  _WHAT?!"_

"Hm." Prussia appeared to seriously consider my first comment, not seeming at all ruffled by my exclamation. "Well, we  _did_ once have a morning breath competition, but that's not exactly, it doesn't count as  _talking,_ I don't think."

"You- Lovino-" I finally sputtered, choosing to ignore the morning-breath statement in a desperate bid to save at least  _some_ of my neurons from complete annihilation by idiocy.  _As a romantic interest, they said… they… they don't think_  Lovi  _is a good boyfriend for_ me?  _What on Earth-_ "You think-"

"-That he's not an acceptable dating candidate for you? Well, of course, my dear, only-" France, to my surprise and horror, didn't seem surprised by the sudden turn the conversation had taken. "-perhaps we should not be having this conversation down a dark and suspicious alley, you agree?"

"No!" I bolted to my feet, drawing myself up to my full height, and stared down at my friends with my best Fearsome Kingdom Look. This did not have exactly the effect I'd wanted; France sighed and folded his hands in his lap, while Prussia giggled maniacally and yelled, "That's right, Toni, let it all out!"

Nonetheless, I did my best to appear intimidating and cold for a good three seconds more before slumping, glaring, and running a hand through my hair. "No," I repeated, "No, I think I wanna hear this  _now,_ before Gil can get any more plastered or Francis can look any more smug and hard-done-by- if that's even  _possible_ at this point, I mean-" I paused to take a breath, then rattled on. "Tell me, my dear friends, what do you mean by insinuating that Lovino might not be "a suitable match" for the likes of me? Since when have you two been authorized to judge my love life, anyway- what if I told you it was none of your business? I'll have you know that I'm going to  _seriously_ devote myself to this relationship with Lovi, because this is way too important to me to blow, even if  _you two_ don't deem us 'compatible' enough for your standards- I've got news for you,  _amigos,_ the-"

I stopped. Francis and Prussia now wore identical smirks; even as I watched, Prussia leaned over to France and said, in an exaggerated stage-whisper, "I  _told_ you he'd react this way."

" _This,_ my dear _,"_ said France, spreading both of his hands and giving me a pitying smile, "is  _exactly_ why we are concerned."

"And what is _this?"_ I demanded, flopping back down onto the ground and flinging my own hands into the air in a sordid imitation of France's elegant gesture. "I fail to see how you twobeing a pair of cryptic, condescending  _vergas_ could endanger my relationship with Lovi in any way!"

"Not  _us_ ," said France, increasing the pitying-ness rays, " _you,_ Antonio. You are so delightfully determined to 'make this work', as you say, and yet we, as your devoted friends, fear that in your arduous passion of infatuation you will overlook … things that you… should not overlook, and thus, fall to your ultimate demise."

I was starting to think that France was also drunk.

"Sorry, I don't…" I paused. "I mean. If you want me to listen to you, speak in a way that's easy to understand!" I wasn't going to apologize for listening to their crap. I was going to be assertive. I reminded myself that I was angry at them, which isn't something that I should really have needed to remind myself, but it's harder to be mad when you're really, really confused, you know.

France chuckled, apparently not offput by my attitude. "Fine. We think -"

"We think you're so in love that you can't see that Lovino is totally bad for you!" yelled Prussia, waving his hands in my face.

" _What?!_ " I yelled back, pushing his hands back into his own personal space and glaring at both of them. "I- uh-" For a second, I was tempted to just tell them that it was none of their fucking business- because geez, it really  _wasn't-_  but curiosity won out. " _Why_  do you think Lovi is bad for me? We make a great couple, right? And we've been friends for a long time!"

"Well, sometimes being in love is a different thing from just being  _friends_ , Antonio," drawled France in that horribly superior way he has. "In a romance, every feeling you might feel in a friendship is multiplied tenfold."

"That's not true," I protested. "You can't just compare different kinds of relationships like that- I mean- argh, that's not the point! Don't avoid the question! Why do you think me dating Lovi is a bad thing?"

"Like I have told you time and time again," said France, sounding bored, "you need someone who will stabilize you, ground you, someone who you can depend on. Somebody who you can be happy with, who will not punch you in the stomach if you say something he disagrees with! And Lovino, sad to say, is none of those things, convenient though that would be!"

"Lovi  _does_ stabilize me," I protested, confused. "Just because he isn't a stable  _person_ doesn't mean that he can't be  _my_ stabilizer, right? I mean-" I paused. Something about what I'd just said didn't make sense. "Well… he  _isn't_ very stable, is he? But-"

"Exactly!" burst in Prussia, grabbing my knee; I wasn't sure whether this was supposed to be a comforting gesture, or whether he was just trying to stop himself tipping over and crashing on his face. "You're- puttin' Vargas on a pedestal, Toni; you aren't seeing the Real Lovino, you know? Just, the image you think he is."

"What Gilbert means," France cut in gracefully, seeing my befuddlement, "is that perhaps your idea of being in love with Lovino grounds you, but the person himself is not stable enough to be anyone's support, least of all a needy person like you. I am not speaking of his personality, but of his emotional state, you see?"

"I'm not  _needy,"_ I yelped, staring from one to the other of them. "Am- am I needy? I-" I knew my friends weren't exactly ones for tact, but that had been blunt even for France.  _I… I always knew I couldn't be an entirely independent person, a loner, but I never thought I was needier than the average person…?_ I prided myself on my ability to take criticism well, but that  _hurt._

"Don't take it personally," advised Prussia, patting my knee in a sort of vaguely parental way. "We all are, d'you know?"

"It's true," agreed France. "Most of us nations  _are_ needy and unstable. Relationships, for the likes of us, can never be effortless. No, much more likely that they be tragic and fiery, burning out like the briefest of candles! Ah, Antonio, it may be painful, but that ephemeral way of life holds a special glory, do you not agree?"

"No! I don't agree!" I spluttered, brushing Prussia's hand off my knee. "I don't want a brief, passionate _love affair_  with  _anyone_! I want a  _long-term relationship_  with Lovino, because I've loved him for years and years and I know him better than almost anyone!" I glared at France, who looked back at me with pity. "Now that we're together, it  _will_ be easy to love each other! We'll show you! I'm willing to try as hard as I've ever tried at anything, to make this work! Or do you doubt that he loves me as much as I love him?" I tried to sound brave and bold and challenging, but as the words left my mouth I couldn't help thinking what a hypocrite I was.  _I doubt it, too, sometimes._

It sounded stupid, but sometimes I was literally overwhelmed by emotion because of Romano. Anything could set it off- his hair under a yellow lamp, the way he would dig his delicate hands into rough garden soil without hesitating, even the way he breathed. I loved him so much- every part of him, unconditionally, absolutely, ridiculously. And it felt so special, like I'd never feel this way about another person again, that nobody in the world could understand it except for me. Times like that, I'd wonder whether it was even possible that Romano could reciprocate such an intense emotion. I'd think about whether love could be measured in different ways by different people. Sometimes, I'd consider bringing it up to him, but I was always afraid that he might think me stupid, so I never did. Was that what France meant, when he said I was unstable?

Romano  _did_  make me afraid. Holding his hand made me afraid. Speaking to him made me afraid, but so did  _not_ speaking to him. Loving him made me afraid. Maybe that was a bad thing. But how would I ever learn not to be afraid to love him, if people like France and Prussia kept saying stupid negative things?

"We're not bashing you, mate," mumbled Prussia, rocking back slightly and surveying me. "It's him, not you. I don't… know. We just dunno if you're ready for all this shit." Suddenly, he looked uncomfortable, as if he was biting back words- which was really quite unsettling, since he literally has no verbal filter when he's drunk. "I mean, I get that this means a lot to ya, so… we just don't want you to fuck it all up, okay?"

 _Most nations_ are  _needy and unstable. Relationships, for the likes of us, can never be effortless._

"Thanks, Gil, Francis." I felt myself soften a little. They were only trying to help, after all- and I could see how Romano's actions sometimes could be concerning. He did hit me sometimes, and he got angry a lot, and sometimes he told me he hated me - a lot of the time he seemed unhappy, which maybe  _was_ something that you'd be concerned about if you didn't know him as well as I did. But I  _did_ know him that well, and I  _knew_ that he didn't really mean any of it- it was just the way he was. He'd never change, but it didn't mean he wasn't okay just the way he was. I'd told him I loved him just the way he was.

That was fine, right? It was good, that I was accepting him for himself, that I could see past most peoples' judgments of him to the real him inside. It was a  _good_ thing. He appreciated it. I knew that he was happy with me, even if he didn't always say so. I didn't mind if he was mean, because I knew better than to take it seriously coming from him. I knew him so much better than everyone else.

Right. That was how it was, and it was fine.

"I don't need you to babysit my relationships, though," I told them, getting to my feet and deliberately looking away from them. I didn't want to see how they'd look at me, so pitying, because they didn't understand what a great thing Romano and I had. "Me and Lovino are fine. I'm just as mature as you two are. I can handle myself in a relationship."

"Yes, Antonio, we acknowledge that," started France in a patronizing tone, "but-"

Just then, the phone in my back pocket buzzed. I held up a finger and pulled it out.

 **Lovino:** Fuck

 **Lovino:** I need a drink.

It was Romano! He must have finished his meeting with Germany. I pored over the text message, ignoring my friends' blatant stares behind me. I assumed that the meeting hadn't really gone well- Romano, bless his soul, never really did do well with these diplomatic things.  _I_ could have told him that going to give Germany a 'good talking-to' -about his love life, of all things- would never work. But he wouldn't have taken advice from me- he was so stubborn, it was really very cute! I'd found it was usually better to just let him do stupid things; if I contradicted him on a personal matter like this, he might get angry at me, and I didn't want that.

Besides, the meeting could have gone amazingly  _well_ , and Lovino Vargas  _still_ would have griped to heaven and back about it.

 **Antonio:** Hi lovi! The meeting with Ludwig didn't go well?

 **Lovino:** Don't ask, bastard.

 **Lovino:** Just hurry and come meet me.

 **Antonio:** Ok! See you soon!

I turned back to my friends, irritation dispelled somehow by the brief exchange. (Being in the company of nobody but France, Prussia, and the various short-term enemies we always somehow managed to attract  _did_ get wearing after a while.) Yes, I was sure of myself now- and they'd see it too, in time. It would have been a lie to say that their doubts didn't have an effect on me, but I did my best to disregard it; surely neither of them had made a legitimate point in our discussion (Prussia had called it a heart-to-heart, but somehow I felt that in real heart-to-heart talks, you were supposed to reveal deep, emotional secrets, while ours always ended in bickering and somebody checking their phone.)

There were a few things that niggled at me persistently, things my friends had said that had triggered something in my mind, but I was swept up in the desire to meet Romano as soon as possible and I brushed them aside. I would have time to think on it later, if I even remembered this conversation as anything significant in the future. And, of course, I didn't have time to think on it  _now_.

Oh. Why didn't I have time to think about it for a few seconds, you ask? Ha, because our old friends, the gang of men in tacky leather jackets, were suddenly upon us again, and France was yelling that he'd  _known_ he shouldn't have let Prussia drag them into this narrow and impossibly shady alleyway, and Prussia was babbling something in rapid German that was making the five bald mens' faces contort in  _really_  weird ways, and then we were being backed up against the wall and something slimy was dripping down the back of my shirt.

This took all of two seconds.

I had time to catch a glimpse of what looked an awful lot like a belly button piercing before Prussia gave a shriek of laughter and kicked the lead guy straight in the balls. To the serenade of his long, drawn-out scream- which sounded a bit like a wet balloon deflating very, very slowly- we made our very, very quick escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really have no idea what happened with this chapter what a complete wreck this whole situation turned out to be XD
> 
> thanks for reading!


	12. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 12: Romano  
> I Could Beat Francis To A Pulp If I Were Sober, But I'm Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for profanity and alcohol.

"Why is there a parrot on your face?"

I put my hand on my cheek defensively, coloring up and glaring. I'd forgotten about that. "Your brother."

Germany considered this, eventually giving a thoughtful little nod that signified he found that an acceptable explanation.

We regarded each other in silence.

"Why are you here?" he asked, after considering me for a few more seconds, as if it had only just occurred to him then that this-me, standing in his office in Berlin,  _without_  having being forced there against my will by multiple semitrucks outfitted for combat by America's weapons designers- was a remarkably unlikely scenario.

" _My_  brother," I said, folding my arms and fixing him with a steady look. "My brother, Feliciano Vargas,  _your_  supposed  _lover,_ who has been moping after you for  _two weeks._ "

"Oh," said Germany.

" _Oh_ is right, you piece of shit," I snapped. "D'you know who it is been fixing him coffee and cooking him soup and listening to his dumb sad operas on repeat and answering fake-casual questions about " _Hey, hey Lovi, not that I'm worried, but do you think Ludwig will leave me someday?"_

Germany looked stricken, but I plowed on regardless. " _Me,_ you unadulterated lump of cowardice,  _me._ And I'm fucking sick of it, okay, so take a fucking second off your Important Business and text him telling him you love him so he'll shut up, all right?"

 _Please, please,_ I begged in my head,  _just let it be that simple. Neither of us want to be having this conversation. Just text him. It's that simple. Please let it be that simple._

"It's not that simple," said Germany.

_Gyyaaarrghghhghhhh._

I willed my eyes to burn holes into his forehead. They didn't. His forehead stayed catastrophically intact. So did the rest of him.

"I'd celebrate," I said, gritting my teeth, "for a month straight, if you decided to leave him. I'm not doing this because I approve of your relationship in the  _least."_

"Lovino, it's not exactly your decis-" Germany began, looking suitably annoyed for the first time during this conversation; I cut him off.

" _As I was saying,"_ I snapped at him, "I'd be charmed out of my  _skull_ if you decided to fuck off out of our lives, but if you're going to do it, do it in a clear way that leaves no room for ambiguity. Feli's been tied down in the past  _enough_ because of you; if you're going to break his fucking heart, at least let him move on afterwards!"

At some point during this sentence, I'd begun to shout. I only realized it when I heard my own voice echoing off the walls of Germany's office.

There was another, longer silence. I tried to maintain enough anger to glare at him, but it was difficult; I could feel my face slipping back into a sort of sullen nervousness the longer we stared at each other.

"Well?" I finally snapped, unable to take the way he was looking at me.

"I… don't wish to leave Feliciano," said Germany, slowly lowering his gaze to look down at his hands. "I- the situation, it's… complicated."

So rare were the times that I heard Germany at an actual loss for words that I actually hesitated, silently waiting for him to go on, instead of snarking at him.  _Water is fucking wet. Of_ course _it's complicated. Where d'you get off on thinking it was going to be easy, loving him, after the shit you did to him? You think bringing him flowers and kissing him and holding his hand is going to make that go away?_ I bit down hard on all of it.  _Oh, God, I wish Feli were here. I wish Toni were here. They'd know what to do._

"I've got time," I said instead, determined not to let him wiggle out of this one.

"I have not," countered Germany, glancing at his watch. "I have another meeting in fifteen minutes, and I need to get ready now. I  _am_  sorry, Lovino, but just because I choose to spend some time away from Feliciano does not mean that our relationship is over. I would not worry about it."

He did look genuinely apologetic, too, but 'sorry' never mended any broken plates. I glared at him. "If your relationship's so safe and easy, then, why don't you do something to reassure Feli of that fact? It'd make everyone's life a hell of a lot easier!"

Germany set a sheaf of papers down on his desk with a loud  _bang._ Despite myself, I flinched.

"How do you know it's me, and not Feliciano, that has done wrong in this case?" he demanded, glaring down at the polished wood of the table. "Is it altogether impossible that it may be  _me_  that does not desire to talk with  _him_  at present? Must our relationship always be about his wants, his needs, in your eyes?"

I gaped at him for a few seconds, completely disarmed. It was true; I'd been quick to put Germany on the villain's side, I always did. If Veneziano'd done something to make Germany upset… what could it even have been? Had he been irritatingly cheerful? Obnoxiously perfect, perhaps? Overbearingly caring, maybe?

"O-of course not," I finally said, flailing to regain control of the conversation. "But regardless of who fucked up, trying to escape the fact by hiding forevermore among your piles of paperwork isn't doing shit, you know."

"Two weeks is nothing, to a nation," said Germany coolly, picking up the papers he'd scattered across the desk and carefully reorganizing them into a neat stack before tucking them into his briefcase. I glared at his hands, hating how he refused to look at me. "Feliciano will surely get over it. And if he doesn't…" He paused, mumbling the last few words so I couldn't hear them.

"Speak up, bastard," I snapped.

"If he doesn't, perhaps it will be for the best!" said Germany furiously, slamming his briefcase down on the floor; it made a sound like a bomb hitting, but that may have just been the incredible amount of papers stuffed in it.

"What the hell do you mean?!" I yelled back, my heart suddenly in my throat at the implications. "Stop speaking in code, fuckass!"

"If Feliciano cannot handle my absence for a mere few weeks, this relationship will not work!" said Germany sharply, knuckles tightening on the handle of the briefcase.

"I never said he couldn't! Obviously, this is something more than Feli just missing you, and  _you_  of all people should have realized that first!" I shot back, bristling with anger. "What kind of a lover  _are_  you, if you can't even convince him that you're not going to  _dump_  him?!"

"You understand nothing about our relationship!" spat Germany, sweeping his briefcase off his desk and stalking towards the door. "Don't interfere in things that have nothing to do with you!"

"He's my fucking brother!" I shouted, grabbing his arm. "It's got  _everything_ to do with me!"

Germany stared at me for a long moment before wrenching himself out of my grasp and opening the door.

"Perhaps you should take this conversation up with  _him,_ then, if he is so important to you!" he snapped, one hand on the doorknob. "Do not contact  _me_  again! I am  _far_ too busy to be discussing the state of my love life with the likes of you!"

He slammed the door in my face.

* * *

"He keeps saying he's  _busy,_ but I thought Felani-Felicinao-  _Feli,_ I thought  _Feli_ was all, true _love_ , for him, right, Toni?" I slammed my empty glass back down on the counter and gestured wildly to the bartender for a refill. "And he  _yelled_ at me, I think I made it  _worse_ , and I don't know what to  _do,_ and what if they break up?! Oh, my God,  _Toni, what if they break up?!"_

Spain patted me nervously on the arm as I tossed my fifth-sixth?-drink back, wincing as it burned down my throat. "Well, you always said you didn't want them together, right?" he said reasonably, his own voice a little slurred. "Relax, Lovi, it'll be fine!"

"What if it's all my fault?" I moaned, staring into my glass and then flagging down the bartender again. "Feli's so, so, he's so in  _love,_ and he'll be heartbroken, and he'll  _hate_ me, Toni, and it'll all be, that, stupid German, bastard's,  _fault!_ " Distantly, in some far corner of my brain to which my common sense had retreated in fear, I noted this remarkable instance of cognitive dissonance. Determined to squash that uncomfortably aware part down, I took a gulp of my new drink and glared at the countertop.

Spain looked a bit nervous, patting me again. "Relax," he repeated. "It's fine! Lovi, don't you think you've had enough to drink, now?"

"Aw, Toni, he's barely even drunk yet!" yowled Prussia, flinging a heavy arm around my shoulders and yanking me into his side in a brotherly fashion. "Hey, Lovinooo, are you sure it's not  _you_ in love with Ludwig, 'cos you've been moping over him for  _ages_  now!"

"I'm not in love with the, the potato," I protested weakly, waving my glass so broadly that half of it spilled onto the counter. "I, I love Antonio… I  _love_ you, Toni, not Germany… I hate him! Toni, I hate him… he's always fucking everything the fuck up!" Suddenly close to tears, I ripped away from Prussia and captured Spain's mouth in a sloppy, desperate kiss. He seemed surprised, but put his hands on his waist to steady me. "Why did Feli have to fall in love with such a bastaaard?!" I wailed, abruptly pulling away from him and finishing off the remainder of my drink.

"True love knows no distinctions,  _mon ami,"_ purred France, sitting down next to Spain and smirking at me, his hair out of its ponytail and his clothes rumpled. "Love is the purest part of two souls desperately calling for each other's embrace- it has nothing to do with mundane things such as personality!"

I narrowed my eyes, trying to process this barf-worthy sentence in my alcohol-sodden brain. "I don't, think that's true," I finally said, "but I'm not sure why, it doesn't make sense, but I'll tell you later, why it's not true, you…. not-making-sense bastard!"

"You can try to deny it all you want," laughed France, raising his glass to me, "but if the spark is not there, the spark is not there! The spark, you know,  _mon cher,_ a most capricious being… nobody can predict the way the river turns…" He put a fond arm around Spain's shoulders and sighed melodramatically.

"You're drunk," I stated, blandly, "and you're making, even less sense than usual,  _that's_ an-unusual, you French bastard."

"No?" said France, straightening up and slinking away from Spain to survey me intently. "Look at you and our dear Antonio, for instance! Your personalities are completely different, your goals in life, your interests… and yet, there is the spark, which draws you together through desire and chemistry!" He smacked Antonio on the shoulder in a chummy sort of way. "You can try to dislike him, but you  _need_ him…"

"Fuck off, Francis," moaned Prussia, suddenly getting up from his seat, "I'm not going to listen to this, this  _Schwachsinn_ , I'm going to dance- you,  _Italy,_  dance with me-!" He lurched into the crowd, tugging at my hand, but I shook him off, suddenly feeling cold.

"I don't, _love_  Toni just because of some  _spark,_ that comes by chance," I told France, setting my empty glass down on the counter and glaring at him.

"But why do you love each other, if not because of that?" challenged Francis, languidly-seemingly without realizing it- carding his long fingers through Spain's hair. Spain didn't seem to notice, taking a deep gulp of his drink and staring straight ahead of him as if he wasn't even paying attention to the drunk-shouted conversation me and France were having across him.

"Idiooots," shrieked Prussia, half-despairingly and half-gleefully, and plunged into the melee of dancers brushing up against the bar, quickly disappearing from our sight.

"I just- like him a lot," I slurred, confused at the question, trying to pick it apart enough to formulate an argument that would leave France speechless. His logic was wrong somewhere. I knew it. It would only take one statement to unravel his whole claim. Where was the statement? "He's kind to me. Makes me food. Stop touching, his fucking hair." I grabbed France's hand and replaced it on his lap. It was distracting me. I couldn't think, and it was all his stupid hand's fault.

"You love him because he does things for you?" asked France, a small half-smile on his face as he surveyed the hand I'd flung back at him. "Then, why does he love you? What do you do for him,  _mon petit amant?"_

I froze, staring at him, his face partially obscured by Spain's profile, but that smug, drunken,  _I just scored a point in our debate_ look glowing out at me.

"I, I watch movies with him," I prodded the table with a finger; the words were too slow to come. "Help him garden. Cook pasta." What  _did_ I do for Spain, other than love him and kiss him and talk to him? Was France right? "Doesn't fucking matter," I decided unsurely, leaning back a little on the bar stool and sniffing. "'Cause, I  _don't_  love him just 'cause he does things for me. I, love him, because he's  _him,_ Francis, it's  _him,_  d'you see?" I hadn't worded that right; I gazed at France in drunk supplication, begging him to understand what I meant. "D'you  _see?"_

"Yes," drawled out France, one long finger creeping up Spain's shoulder again, and I got the uncomfortable feeling that I'd said something wrong, walked into some kind of verbal trap he'd set up for me. I reached for my drink, but the glass was empty; glaring at it, as if the world's problems were its fault, I signaled the bartender yet again.

"I think you've had enough to drink, Lovi." Spain gave me a smile when I transferred the glare to his face, but it seemed strained; his eyes were worried. Actually, they were blurry. His whole face was blurry. I could hear France chuckling in the background, as if from a long way away, but I ignored him. Anger fading, I stared intently into Spain's eyes, scrutinizing every inch of his face with a drunkard's odd precision for detail, looking for some hint of why the sight of it made my heart beat faster.

Could it really be as France had said- was it only because of some random spark that we'd ended up in a romantic relationship? If the spark hadn't caught, would we not feel this way for each other? All the things he was that I liked, did I only like them because I was in love with him? How would I ever be able to tell? Spain- did he only put up with me because  _he_ was in love with  _me?_ Otherwise, why would a person like him even stick around with me, right? If someday I didn't trust him, didn't like some of the things he did, didn't  _like_ him- I'd be stuck with him, because I'd be in love with him, would always need him-

"Even if-someday- I'm, change, you'll still love me," I whispered directly into his face, his nose inches from my nose, my whole mind infused with the incredible importance of delivering the exact meaning of my message to him. "Even if I'm not, y'know, me anymore."

He started to respond, but the moment his lips opened I pressed my own against them in a hasty, blind-desperate kiss, suddenly terrified of hearing the answer to my not-question.

He kissed back. I lost all coherent thought. It  _was_  too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes! i can't write drunk people! at all! can you tell already!
> 
> i'm glad people liked my interpretation of spain; he's a little sharp and bitter lmao i don't actually know if it's possible for me to write happy characters. i'm working on it. anyway he doesn't come as naturally to me as writing romano, but i'll do my best!
> 
> and thank you for reading.


	13. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13: Romano  
> Hangovers And Romantic Drama Should Not Mix. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for profanity, alcohol mention, general conflict t/w for latter half of chapter

So then it was morning, my mouth tasted like something had died of excessive diarrhea in it, and the Battle of Garigliano of 1503 was being reenacted inside my head. I was lying in a seedy hotel bedroom that smelled like beer and breakup sex, I could feel something crusty on the bottom half of my face, and Spain was lying asleep next to me, fully dressed in mud-caked clothes.

Just as I was beginning to absorb the full shittiness of the situation, the door banged open and Prussia strutted in. He was wearing boxers and little else.

"Aw, Lovino, you're awake!" he crowed. "And it's only one in the afternoon, too! Toni still out?"

"Why," I croaked, when I had salvaged the remnants of the power of speech from somewhere within my aching brain, "aren't you, dead right now?"

"He never gets hangovers." As if to compound my misery, France stepped through the open door, thankfully fully clothed, and gave Prussia a look of extreme resentment. "It is just one of the things that makes him so persistently unlikeable, you see." I was pleased to see that he, at least, showed some signs of having felt the repercussions of the night out we'd had- although the look on his face may also have been from the mere sight of Prussia's shit-eating grin, come to think.

"Aw, you're just jealous!" cackled Prussia, slapping France on the shoulder and striding over to the bed. "Oy, Toni, wake up! There's only half an hour till our train leaves!"

" _WHAT?!"_ I screamed, leaping out of bed and immediately tripping over what seemed to be, upon a second's further observation, someone's large and hairy foot sticking out from under the bed. " _FUCKING SHIT FUCK FIGLIO DI PUTTANA ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING WITH ME RIGHT NOW YOU PIECE OF UNADULTERATED SHIT DICK I WILL MURDER-"_

" _WHERE'S THE ASSASSIN?!"_ Spain screamed, jolting awake with a start, lunging across the bed, and grabbing the front of my shirt. " _Lovi,_ I- aaAARGH-" Turning to face him, I'd tripped over the second foot- of  _course,_ most people had two, I had barely had time to register, before I'd gone crashing face-first onto the disgusting carpet, dragging Spain with me.

"Christ! Lower your voices, for God's sake!" yelled France, his eyes screwed up in pain, as Prussia leaned back against the doorway and laughed at our pain.

Such began our day.

* * *

Of course, we didn't make the train. I mean, firstly, there was the difficulty of Prussia's having left all his clothes behind in, well, it had to be  _one_ of the many, many, many nightclubs we'd visited last night- I hoped to God it had been the last one, but, horrifyingly, nobody was sure- and France flat-out refused to lend any of us anything to wear. By the time we'd all been able to acknowledge that fact, another twenty minutes had passed and Spain  _still_ hadn't managed to locate his bottle of aspirin.

So, while France stayed behind to reschedule our train tickets, Prussia and Spain and I went to buy new clothes. (Prussia wrapped himself in a sheet.) This task only took two and a half hours of bickering, dickering, arguing, bargaining, pleading, stealing, begging, blackmailing, and  _fleeing_ to accomplish.

After we were all suitably clothed, we boarded the train to Barcelona, where I'd be staying for a few days with Spain. France and Prussia would be continuing on to Paris, where there was some kind of fancy cheese tasting event they'd be going to together.

I didn't even feel sorry for the cheese tasting people, I was so happy to be rid of Prussia's birdcall imitations. We parted ways with the greatest of mutual delight.

* * *

My headache settled into a gentle sort of throbbing without France and Prussia to aggravate it. Spain was being very quiet on the seat next to me, his hand warm in mine as usual, so I had a lot of time to think about things. For instance, how spectacularly I'd failed in my attempt to make things better for Veneziano.

Yeah, that's right; although in the excitement of last night I'd just about forgotten about my abortive meeting with Germany- had been  _trying_ to forget, if we're being honest, because we all drink to forget in the end, don't we?- it was all coming back now: the actual reason I'd tagged along on this whole monstrous journey. Germany's words came back to me: " _Take it up with him, then, if he's so important to you!"_ I'd been scared to, before, but maybe that really was the best course of action? Have it out with Veneziano, who at least probably wouldn't attack me with a bludgeoning tool made from paperwork or slam any doors in my face?

Then again, maybe it was better  _not_ to take heat-of-the-moment advice from an angry, sleep-deprived German man wielding a ten-ton briefcase who I'd managed to royally piss off in the space of five minutes.

Pondering this, I let my fingers wander over Spain's palm; his skin was smooth and a little calloused, dry enough for the pads of my fingers to move smoothly across it without catching. Looking up, I caught a glimpse of Spain's face; he wore a vague, tender expression as he gazed at our two interlocked hands. Blushing a little, I pretended not to notice, looking awkwardly around the train compartment instead and trying to focus on what I'd been thinking about before.

If Germany was being such an asshole nowadays, no wonder he was upsetting Veneziano- but, then again, maybe that was just our natural enmity showing through. He'd never treat Veneziano that way. But… to be honest, it was a rare occasion when he treated  _anyone_ like that; Germany'd made self-control a real point in recent years, and he barely ever lost his temper, strict about rules and order as he was.

Had something specific I'd said really set him off? Or was he just really stressed in general? It- okay, it wasn't like I wanted to  _know him better,_ but… I had to admit it would have come in handy. Maybe. Or maybe I'd have failed anyway. Veneziano knew him better than anyone, and it seemed that  _he'd_ failed. In which case it wouldn't be my fault… except that it would be, because I should have known better than to  _try and talk sense into Germany_ about his  _relationship problems_ and expect him to  _listen_. To  _me._

_Ugh._

I sighed. I didn't want to think about it. It was rare that I'd do something so unpleasant without being forced into it by ten guns to my head and a chainsaw at my back; I'd definitely put enough pain and energy into this to be justified in giving up now.

Not to mention that I'd need to conserve my strength; I was going to stay with Spain, after all. It's not that I minded- all right, I was a bit excited, really- okay, despite everything, I was _fucking pumped_ to have him all to myself for a full three days, if we're being totally honest. Although it's pretty pathetic and embarrassing to admit it, I was really happy that we were going to be together. But that didn't mean that I wasn't also really nervous.

Being around Spain, I thought, wrapping my hand more firmly around his and squeezing a bit, often sapped my energy. Always trying to figure out what to say and what not to say, trying to act like things he did and said didn't matter at all, when they  _really, really_ did- it was pretty difficult. I was almost afraid to be  _nice_ to him, because it would be such a radical change from my usual behavior.

I have this terrible habit of letting stupid shit I did in the past fuck me over in the present.

I didn't even know why I was so worried about changing my attitude- Spain liked cute things and nice people and soppy emotional things, after all, not one thousand resentful snakes in a vaguely human form. I guess, for some reason, I thought that maybe if I made it hard for him to be around me, he'd respect me more- and that's the one thing I felt like he didn't do for me. He liked me, tolerated me, cared for me, maybe even loved me- but did he respect me? About as much as he respected me when I was a little bed-wetting brat only a few hundred years old, I'd say.

Yeah, I know, I know. Because a short, eternally angry, insult-spewing little shit of a person is  _so much_ easier to respect than a calm, mature, respectful person. Old habits are hard to break, all right? You'd have no idea- spend a couple hundred years watching good people you love die like mayflies in your vision and you'd be bitter too.

Sometimes it really scared me- the way I showed so much of my pain on the outside, snapping and attacking others, but nations like Veneziano and Spain always managed to show happy tells. It made me wonder how they lived, keeping all that inside themselves, if  _I_  couldn't even manage not to say the word "fuck" during a meeting with the Chamber of Deputies. (It only happened once, though. Once is enough.) Weird as it seems, this thought kept me up at night. Expending the effort to be a polite, nice, contented person must, I thought, be excruciatingly painful.

Nudged by that thought, I looked up and tugged on Spain's hand. He looked at me curiously.

"Hey, so… I thought we could talk," I began awkwardly, the words out of my mouth before I could take them back. I watched Spain's eyebrows furrow and attempted to smile nonchalantly, which probably looked either like a smirk or a grimace. "About what Francis said earlier, maybe…?"

The thing was, maybe Spain really was as happy and stable as he appeared. Maybe he didn't have any deep, dark issues- maybe he'd dealt with all that by now. Maybe it was just me, spitefully trying to bring him down to my own insecurity-ridden, miserable level. But I really, really doubted it- and, if he was dealing with things like that, I didn't want him to have to deal with them alone. Wasn't that what a good boyfriend was supposed to do- be the confidant, the healer, the one special person to be relied on above all else? Right?

I watched Spain's face close up like a clam and mentally smashed down the tiny optimistic voice in my head with a figurative crowbar. Of course, it wouldn't be _that_  easy.

"It's fine, we worked it out," said Spain, cheerily, in that  _Whether you believe me or not, can you just please shut up?_ way. "Sorry for losing my temper, Lovi."

_Okay._

So I might have given it a break.

I was  _going_ to let it go. I'm a wimp when I'm not angry. Really, this- what happened next- is  _his_ fault. Completely his fault. Because hearing him fucking apologize for something like that just… pissed me off  _so much_. Like he was too good to lose his temper once in a while. That he thought I was the kind of person who'd hold it against him. And it made me so fucking angry. And his attitude was so terrible. And, and, and…

...if we're being honest, that was a  _fucking stupid_ reason to be mad at him, and the real reason I couldn't let it go was that the two of us had had a fight coming for a while.

Because that's what happened. A fight.

So then I said, "Fuck that," which made Spain raise his eyebrows like a disapproving kindergarten teacher. And then I said, "Don't you give me that fucking bullshit." It came out louder than I intended. So then we had the whole train compartment staring at us for the fucktillionth time that day, and the lady sitting on my left scooted her ass like a foot away from me.

This did not contribute to the supportive, encouraging, open atmosphere I was striving for here. I cringed. Spain gave me a half-disbelieving look, as if to say,  _Are you serious?_

"Look," I said, touching his arm and trying- really trying- to soften my voice. "I didn't mean- I mean- You can talk to me about anything, okay?" With the sinking sensation that I was only digging myself further into my own grave, I continued, "I- uh- just wanna be there for you, you know?"  _Fuck's sake, I sound like a really bad therapist._ "...Yeah."

Spain just stared at me, a sort of unreadable expression on his face. I stared back, trying to hold his steady gaze, but sure that he could see the poorly-disguised tension in my face.

"It's nothing you need to worry about," he said, eventually, and it was… not exactly cold, or unfeeling, no, but it wasn't warm and cheerful like he usually was. Which should have been a hint to me to just drop it.

One thing you should know about me: I'm terrible at taking hints.

"But it's about what you wrote in those letters," I pursued, unwilling to let the subject end on such a bitter note. After all, this had been about  _me-_ surely I had the right to know, I reasoned, if it was me that was the problem?  _Was_ I the problem?

To be honest, I just wanted to hear him say that it wasn't my fault he was upset. Even if he didn't mean it, just hearing the words from his mouth would make it so easy to believe that I was still okay for him. And the thought disgusted me- that I was more worried about myself, and my own petty feelings, than I was genuinely concerned about Spain's problems. I couldn't help it any more than I could stop feeling disgusted. I was, irrationally, burning all over with frustration, despite the fact that Spain'd barely said anything of note.

"You have to tell me what's wrong," I insisted, when he didn't speak. "If it's about me- I've got a right to know, Antonio!"

"It's not about you," Spain immediately deflected, looking relieved, as if I'd just handed him an excuse not to answer my questions. "Just something between me and Francis, okay?"

_Oh._

He was  _lying_ to me. Fuck.

I clenched my teeth, feeling my hand tense up in his. "It sure didn't sound like that on the train, smartass," I hissed. "I'm not  _stupid!"_

"Of course not, Lovi!" Spain protested quickly. "I just, well-! It  _is_ about you, but it's not your  _problem_ , it's mine!"

"Don't fuck around with words like that," I snapped, bristling. "If you really 'worked it out', how come you're so reluctant to tell me? Huh?  _I_ think you just don't think I'm mature enough to handle your so-called  _adult problems!_ "

"Calm down, Lovi! People are staring!" hissed Spain.

Simultaneously, we looked away from each other and glanced around the compartment. I noted that people were indeed staring. I also noted my absolute lack of fucks to give.

"Don't you tell me to calm down," I seethed, after a short and awkward pause, doing my utmost to forget about everything except how pissed off I was. This was difficult; I kept noticing that we were still holding hands, and couldn't decide whether to yank mine out of his, or to leave it as it was. Would it seem petty? Would it make everything worse? Did I  _want_ to make everything worse? Did I?

Presently, Spain solved the problem for me by drawing his hand limply from my grasp and twisting his fingers together in his lap, the way he always did when he was nervous. At this point, I was 99% sure that it had been a bad idea to press the topic of the letters; the only thing preventing me from letting it go now was my stupid pride. So I glared at him as fiercely as I could while he stared vaguely down into his lap and twisted his hands.

"Look, Lovi, can't we talk about this some other time?" he said miserably, eventually, looking up at me. "Those letters- I- I've been thinking…" The expression on his face- I don't know how to describe it, except that it was scary as hell. I felt like if I moved, I'd deal him a fatal blow. We stared at each other, and I knew that this was something more than just the letters, more than just a squabble in a train heading smoothly south. And I could stop it, now, if I was strong enough for this one moment, strong enough to be the one to let it go.

"...I was thinking, maybe… the letters were a mistake," muttered Spain, looking down and away from me, and it was like a shot to the heart to hear it.

Turns out, I wasn't strong enough.

Really, it shouldn't surprise you.

"Yeah? Just 'cause it's hard, you think you can call it a mistake and move on?" I said, the words coming out mangled because I was gritting my teeth so hard.

"It's  _not_ just because it's hard," disagreed Spain strongly, eyes flashing. "You don't get it, Lovi, so just let it go."

"I don't  _get it_ because you won't explain to me!" I retorted angrily. "I'm a- I'm like you, who's going to understand if  _I_  don't?" At the last second, I stopped myself from blurting out "I'm a nation"- because, after all, everyone here already thought we were weird enough; angry men pretending to be countries are not exactly considered normal anywhere, let alone in small, crowded, public areas.

"Give it a rest," Spain practically snarled, crushing his hands together so hard his knuckles turned pale. Looking at them felt like he was crushing the back of my neck, between my shoulderbones. I can deal with watching peoples' angry faces, the way the skin folds up under their eyes and crinkles their noses, the way their faces redden and darken and turn surprisingly ugly. But I hate watching their hands. In the end, words are nothing, because communication is a choice. And your feet are nothing, because no matter how long you walk, you'll never escape the grip of the earth. A person's real power is in their hands, and the only way the world will change is if people grab it and yank it around and punch it in the nose with their  _hands_.

"You always trusted me before," I snapped, watching his eyes widen and then narrow as he struggled not to lose his temper. "What's different now? Is it because we're  _dating?_ Are you  _five?"_

"Why would anything change because we're dating?" Spain demanded. "We're still  _friends,_ right? Have  _I_ changed, or have  _you_ changed, Lovino? Why do you want to know these things all of a sudden? You were always content to leave these things alone  _before."_ He placed emphasis on the word 'before', glaring at me.

" _I_  was always content to leave things alone?" I couldn't believe my ears. "I never even knew those things existed, because apparently you've kept a- a shit fucking ton of stuff from me for years and years!"

Spain had a mulish expression, now, a sure sign that he'd found an arguing point that he'd hold on to until I either gave up or cried. "What's changed  _now,_ that you want to know all these things, Lovi?" he said, patronizing as all hell. "You think that just because we're dating now, I have to tell you all of my secrets?"

I sputtered. "Being  _partners_ is different from being  _friends, idiota!_ You chose me to be your boyfriend because- I dunno- you liked me in a way you don't like other people-" It was chilly in the train compartment, but I felt like sweat should be dripping down my forehead; everybody was still staring, and I did my best to send them all an individual death-glare. I didn't know what they were so fucking shocked about. Maybe they were surprised that a gay couple was having legitimate relationship problems, instead of having kinky anal sex with whips and lashes right there in the train seat. Christ.

They were all complete morons, fucking  _stronzi,_ it was because of dumb moon-eyed people like them that the world was completely fucked. Just sitting there staring, like they didn't realize we weren't some kind of zoo exhibit. Their fucking awkward glances. OKAY, IDIOTS, I KNOW YOU'RE WATCHING US. FUCK'S SAKE.

I said the last part out loud.

" _Lovino!"_ Now Spain sounded really mad. He grabbed my wrist, hard; I shrieked and flung my hand into his face. " _Stop making a scene!"_ he hissed.

" _You're the one making a scene_ ," I yelled, illogically, scraping his hands off my arms. " _Stop making a scene, Antonio! STOP MAKING A SC-"_

Spain grabbed me by the shoulders and hugged me. I'm short. My face went right into his chest. I went completely tense, heart pounding. And no, it wasn't because I was touched all of a sudden by the uselessness of our argument and the depth of my love for him. I wish.

Actually, I just felt this vague fear that he might squeeze me so hard that I'd pop, like an overripe tomato. I had to fight back the urge to bite his shoulder, because I was so panicky at being restrained that I could barely breathe.

Sensing that I'd frozen up and stopped yelling, Spain released me, cautiously, looking my face over the way he used to do during World War II, when trying to make the trip from Italy to Spain was a fucking lost cause and every time we saw each other was nothing but an opportunity to check that the other wasn't slowly bleeding to death from the inside from too much civilian death before we had to break apart and run in opposite directions.

That's how I knew that he was scared. And then I became aware that I was fucking terrified myself. Of him? Of losing him? Of  _this,_ whatever the ever-living fuck  _this_ was? I didn't know. I didn't want to.

"Okay," Spain said, half to himself. "It's okay. Just forget about it. I'm sorry. Lovi, I'm sorry."

"Because I was special," I muttered, looking down at the ground, at the candy wrapper beneath an empty seat, surrounded by crumbs of dirt and grime. I watched it bounce slightly as the train moved. "I thought being in a romantic relationship meant that we were special. And loved each other. More. Than usual."

"You want more from me, now," whispered Spain, half-hopeful, half-fearful.

I closed my eyes, tightly, and nodded.

When I looked at him again, his face had closed off.

"You're just like France," he said, quiet and cold. "And all the others. You're all the same."

I closed my eyes, unable even to be insulted at this.  _Yeah. I'm the same as all of them. Not special enough to be a confidante after all._

The worst part was that I'd really thought I had been. Shame blossomed over me like a blanket that was sort of casually on fire. The little part of me that could still feel something was wishing to eat a power tool.

"I get it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like both lovi and toni are right about some things and wrong about others here.
> 
> note that lovi was very clearly uncomfortable with toni's physical contact. don't hug people who don't want to be hugged. however, lovi also needed to stop yelling swearwords at innocent bystanders.
> 
> this story might update a bit slower than before because rn i'm working on a 7-part story for daiharu week on tumblr (steven/may from pokémon! if you're a fan of ambiguous not-really-romance and philosophical angst, please take a look on june 1st!) and at the end of this month i'll be going to south korea for the summer. and after that, updates for the summer might be in a different time than usual because time zones.
> 
> thanks for reading!


	14. Spain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 14: Spain  
> I Wooed My Love In Barcelona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for profanity, alcohol, physical injury

So, I bet you're wondering now, huh: How did Antonio go from "I'll do anything to make this relationship work!" to "Just leave me alone, Lovi, I don't want to talk about it"?

You already know all about how France and Prussia didn't think Romano and I made a good couple, and how they spent practically the whole trip trying to convince me to rethink our relationship, and how I  _really_  didn't appreciate this, right? But, much as it annoyed me, I found myself thinking about what they were saying a whole lot; at first it was just vague thoughts about how annoying and wrong they were, but … then I started wondering: what did France and Prussia see Romano doing on this trip that made them so sure that Romano was such a bad boyfriend? They'd never complained about him as a friend, so I was sure it had something to do with his romantic abilities. I really couldn't figure it out. It was my knee-jerk reaction to want to ask Romano's opinion, but in this matter I felt like I couldn't talk to him about it for fear he'd blow up at my friends.

In the end, though, it's nothing France or Prussia said to me that changed my mind; rather, it was what France said to Romano. We were sitting at the bar, and I was thinking pretty hard about Romano, and kissing Romano, possibly in places other than his lips, and also a little bit about the state of our relationship.

And then France started yelling across me at Romano, and it's really hard to hush a person who  _thinks_ he is speaking quietly but really  _isn't_. So I heard their whole conversation, and then suddenly I was thinking a lot less about kissing and a lot more about relationship statuses. And it wasn't France's words so much as Romano's responses that changed my mind.

 _Love is the purest part of two souls calling desperately for each other's embrace. It has nothing to do with mundane things such as personality!_ Now, you can punch me in the face and call me a hopeless romantic, but bullshit like that I absolutely cannot deal with. Sure, there was something undeniably beautiful about Francis's unshakeable, powerful belief in the power of fate and romance; equally undeniably, he was, is, and will always be a delusional ass with nothing but red roses and wine to defend himself against the harsh reality of being in love. It's really very tragic if you think about it- but I'd learned by then, through various incriminating experiences, not to feel _too_ sad for him.

I mean, seriously? _"Nobody can predict the way the river turns"?_ What part of a person's brain even comes up with the _thought_  that it might be a good idea to say that?

And Romano, I was happy to see, seemed to agree with me, although to be honest I couldn't quite tell if he was really serious about defending the legitimacy of our relationship or just trying to piss off France; it could have been either, knowing Romano. But I preferred to think that he hated the idea of those two messing around with our partnership just as much as I did.

 _But why do you love each other, if not because of that?_ God, France was doing the hair-petting thing. I was actually starting to enjoy this conversation, though, so I let it go. Actually, I was looking forward to hearing a drunk Romano talk about all the reasons he loved me, the glorious Kingdom of Spain. Hey, it's hard enough to get compliments at all from a guy like that; it's like squeezing blood from a stone. The only blood you'll get, in other words, is your own blood, from injuring your hand when you try and squeeze liquid from a rock. And if you pretend that your own blood is actually the blood of the stone that you wanted to get in the first place- this simile is getting stupid. Never mind.

The point  _is_ , I wanted to hear Romano say nice things about me because he hardly ever did. It's not that I didn't feel loved, more that Romano's way of loving me was quick, sly touches and clever teasing that was too fast for me to follow and knowing what my favorite takeout restaurant was. Which was fine, and lovely, but sometimes you just want to hear from your own lover's mouth that he thinks you're adorable and you have a nice ass, right? Right. Obviously you understand me.

But Romano didn't say that. In fact, he seemed confused by the question, which may have been because he was halfway-to-oblivion drunk by then, but it seemed like a pretty straightforward question to me. Me, I could list a hundred and one reasons why I loved Romano- his smile, his legs, how strong he was, how smart he was, how pretty his hair was, how good he looked in a suit, how he could always make me laugh without even trying. And maybe I was a little offended that he couldn't think of anything much to say about me.

And, well, Romano and France just kept talking about the very nature of love, so what was I supposed to do except follow along?

_Cause, I don't love him just 'cause he does things for me. I love him, because he's him, Francis, it's him, d'you see?_

I didn't see. And then I did.

And I had this blinding sort of, I don't exactly know how to describe it,  _blinding alcohol-induced revelation._

Everything suddenly seemed so much more simple.

Obviously, it didn't even  _matter_  if Romano was a bad boyfriend, as long as I loved him. It didn't matter if we understood each other, as long as he loved me back.

That was it.

 _Love_ was the  _only important part_ of being in a relationship.

Didn't loving someone mean that you accepted them exactly as they were? So, if Romano and I loved each other, that meant that even if he wasn't a perfect boyfriend, I was happy with him exactly the way he was, and I didn't need him to change at all. I couldn't believe I hadn't realized it earlier.

Because as long as the person you were in love with loved you back, how could you be unhappy?

* * *

So I went to bed happy, because I'd figured that out. And I was happy in the morning, too (after a brief and horrifying event involving a nightmare and somebody's passed-out body underneath our hotel bed, that is). And even when Romano and I had to go to one of the most prestigious malls in Berlin while accompanied by a man with Sharpie on his face and nothing but a dirty bedsheet between him and the rest of the world, I was happy, because I was with Romano and that made the experience precious.

It was nice while it lasted.

I think it was the second time Prussia dropped his sheet around his ankles that I started to remember the details of last night.

_I think you've had enough to drink, Lovi._

"Beilschmidt, there is no way in hell I am allowing you to go out in public wearing  _that monstrosity,"_ snarled Romano.

"It's cute!" retorted Prussia, clutching the bird-patterned T-shirt to his dirty-bedsheet-clothed chest, which, I'm sure, in the eyes of the salesgirl standing by, was pretty much a guarantee that he'd have to buy it. "Not all of us have to wear custom-tailored three-piece suits all the fucking time!"

_Even if-someday- I'm, change, you'll still love me._

"I'm not asking you to wear Cinderella's fucking ballgown _,_ fuckssake!" Romano snapped. "You do know that people will see every single goddamn hickey on your body if you wear a T-shirt?"

"Not every  _single_ one." Prussia winked. Romano puffed up like an angry rooster.

_Even if I'm not, y'know, me anymore._

I wasn't entirely sure, looking back on the memory, what Romano had been trying to say. Was he asking me if I'd always love him? Was he affirming that I'd always love him? Was he even aware who he was talking to? I would hope so, since he kissed me right afterward, but I didn't really know. All I could remember was that, at the time, I felt that I'd understood his meaning perfectly. What that meaning had been, I couldn't recall.

But it had sparked a train of thought that I couldn't quite get rid of. I was me- I was sure of that much. But did Romano know me as well as he thought he did? He'd pretty much said it all that night- he didn't love me because of any factor I could control, but because "he's  _him_." If I were to reveal a little more of myself- the worst part, that was the part I'd put trustingly into those letters- maybe he'd stop loving me.

If  _I_ changed into someone that Romano didn't love, then he wouldn't love me, and there'd be nothing I could do about it. I could try to be nice to him, bring him gifts, do everything I usually did to endear myself to him, and none of it would make him  _fall in love_ with me. I wasn't supposed to do things for him, I was supposed to be the kind of person he'd love.

And the kind of person Romano would love- wouldn't be weak, or depend on others, right? That kind of person would be strong, and wouldn't have any skeletons in the closet, and would be self-reliant. That kind of person wouldn't bring up painful topics and expose his weak parts. I'd thought honesty was the best policy, but obviously I'd been wrong. Romano and I had a good thing going now, just the way we were, and he'd certainly never told me he had any interest in talking about depressing things. It was just me who was clinging to the past needlessly; I was the only one making problems, and I needed to stop.

And then, well, that fight happened, and you already know about that as well. How Romano tried to be supportive of my stupid wants and desires, despite himself. It just made me even more certain; my letters had caused enough problems as they were, but luckily I realized that I shouldn't be rocking the boat so much in time to hopefully save our relationship. I'd figured that much out, even though it'd taken me plenty of time to do it; Romano always had called me slow. Now, the only thing left to do was fix the mess I'd made with that fight, convince Romano that I didn't care about all that old history any more, and we'd be all set for a wonderful and romantic five days in Barcelona, one of my favorite cities of all time.

In retrospect, I think maybe I seized upon this solution so quickly because I was genuinely afraid of revealing myself to Romano, despite having convinced myself that I wasn't. Romano always seemed so bulletproof, deflecting personal questions with snark and snappiness. I didn't want to be the vulnerable one in our relationship, the one that needed to be "fixed" by the other. I wanted to protect Romano, not the other way around.

It's really scary, you know, telling someone something you've never told anyone else. While it's still concealed inside you, you feel a bit more like you've got control over it, like you can still pretend it doesn't exist and make the situation into what you want it to be. As soon as someone else knows, it's completely out of your hands. What they choose to think of it, and you, is completely up to them. What that secret becomes is suddenly not just up to you anymore.

Did I really want someone else, my closest best most wonderful and precious friend, to know that sometimes I still had nightmares about the civil war, only I never woke up screaming and sweating so nobody ever noticed? That sometimes, I felt like the footprint I'd made on the world was grinding mercilessly into my chest so that I couldn't breathe? That sometimes I couldn't even look at the other nations at world meetings, because all I could see was every single wound I'd ever inflicted on them, leaking blood down their chests and arms? That I was a disgusting person who couldn't move on from anything, that sometimes smiling felt like screaming? And then have that valuable person constantly watching me with a concerned look, making even the times I was happy and content awkward?

Did I really want Romano's love to become just another reminder of how much I'd fucked up in the past? No. That was the thing I was most scared of.

Did I not think, if this went right, that being able to have his love even after he knew everything would be the most amazing, incredible feeling in the whole world? Of  _course_ I thought so. But when you're afraid of something, your brain will just naturally seize onto excuses not to do that thing- we all know that, right?

And the conviction that I'd lose Romano's love if he  _really_ knew me was a very convenient excuse not to tell him anything.

* * *

"Your room's upstairs, the second from the end," I said, awkwardly sidestepping Romano's swinging arm as he stalked past me and immediately disappeared up the staircase.

And that was, more or less, the situation for the next two days. Still half-bitter over his assertion that he wanted more from me, now that we were dating, I let him be; obviously he knew how to take care of himself, since the leftovers I put in the refrigerator disappeared nightly.

I did my best to block the whole fight from my memory, replacing it with a vague conviction that from now on out everything would be okay -as long as Romano stopped  _expecting_  so damn much from me, that was. Or- I wasn't sure. Was it really his fault? Maybe we'd just both been idiots. But surely I'd been  _more_ in the wrong? Then again, if he hadn't pushed me, I wouldn't have snapped like that and said the things I did- but nevertheless, no matter what caused it, it still wasn't okay to have done what I did. But maybe-

That was the point where I usually had to sit myself down, give myself a good talking-to, resolve that I was being an ineffectual stingray _,_ and cook myself something warm and comforting to shove down my throat even if it was three AM in the morning.

I assumed -had to assume- that Romano was doing the same, since he never came storming down to confront me again.

Two days doesn't sound like long, but it felt like forever- I'd really wanted to spend this time with Romano, and now I was left alone in this big house feeling one-half anxious and repentant, one-half defensive and resentful, and one-half wondering miserably if this meant that we were broken up now. Which was actually three-halves, and more than my one brain could really handle without breaking from the stress of it.

I was just feeling too much in general.

"Hey, bastard." Romano's voice snapped from the top of the stairs. "Take me out."

I knocked over my cup of coffee.

Thus, the first time Romano and I saw each other in two days consisted mostly of him staring incredulously at me from halfway down the staircase while I shrieked and fell backwards, toppling my chair and cracking my head against the hardwood floor. My chest felt like somebody had seared it with a branding iron. My hands were suddenly covered with blood, presumably from getting cut with the broken mug, but I couldn't quite tell where it all was coming from.

"Uh… Antonio?" Romano stared at me, still standing uselessly on the stairs. "Are… you… all right?"

"What does it look like?" I retorted, wiping my face furiously. "A little help would be appreciated here!"

Romano's face closed off; I'd forgotten, momentarily, that we were "in the middle of a fight", so to speak, and that apparently it wasn't okay to exchange our normal teasing. Enormous amounts of sudden, walloping pain can make you forget things. Looking defensive, he took a step backwards, seemed to trip over something, and toppled slowly out of my view.

The curses started with the first thud, escalated with the second, and were still pouring out of his mouth by the time I'd managed to drag myself over to the base of the stairs and see Romano's sorry ass crumpled in a heap.

"Are you all right?" I wheezed, unconsciously parroting his earlier words.

We looked at each other. He was the first to start laughing.

"I thought if we went out on a date, this would stop being awkward," Romano complained, and took a gulp of coffee, glaring at me from the other end of the kitchen table. "I didn't think you'd burn your whole fucking chest with scalding-hot coffee, idiot!"

I just chuckled, sipping my own coffee. "The burn's already healing, anyway, so don't be too worried about me- although it is cute!" Ah, the perks of being immortal. Romano flailed and blushed and almost knocked his own mug over at the word  _cute_. "Besides, you  _fell down the stairs._ Don't tell me that's any worse,  _mi amor!"_

Romano blushed harder, if that was even possible, and shoved me. "I'm not  _worried!_ I meant that you're a stupid idiot, okay? And don't call me that!"

"Whatever you say,  _mi corazon,"_ I laughed, savoring the way our conversation flowed along old, familiar lines. Almost all of the awkwardness from the incident on the train had- not exactly disappeared, but I'd forgotten about it until I remembered that I'd forgotten.

Romano seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because suddenly he touched my hand, directing my gaze to him.

"Hey," he said, hesitantly. "About what I said on the train- I, uh-"

"Don't worry about it!" I said, too quickly, giving him a hasty smile. I didn't want all that to come up again, just when it seemed that we'd managed to fix everything. "It was really my fault. I'm sorry, Lovi." I sighed and gave him a little smile. "I didn't mean what I said, about you being the same as everyone else… I was just mad. You're really special to me, Lovino. I hope you know that."

Romano stared at me for a second, then buried his face in his hands. For a second, I thought he was going to cry. "Stop it, you bastard," he muttered from behind his fingers. "Sentimentality doesn't suit you!"

"Oh, I think it does, though!" I chirped, peeling his fingers away from his face.

"I'm sorry, too," Romano admitted, sounding like the words were being pressed from his throat by a clothes mangle. I just smiled. An apology at all was quite something from him; it must mean that he really cared, I thought. "I said some bad stuff, too. I mean… it's okay if you don't trust me."

"I do trust you, Lovi!" I protested, reaching for him, but he drew away, smiling bitterly. "I didn't mean-"

"No! I mean-" Romano gave me a level look, his eyes narrowing as if he was trying to find the right way to say something difficult. "I ...understand, if you don't completely trust me. I don't completely trust you, either, not… not with everything. This is all so new." A little hurt, but mostly just intrigued by his words, I sank back down into my seat. "No offense," he added hastily.

"None taken," I assured him.

"Trust isn't something you can just expect, you know? So if you don't trust me, that's not your fault, it's mine. And it's okay." Wow, Romano must be really serious about this, I thought; he rarely ever talked this much on "emotional" subjects. It made me feel a little guilty about keeping my own problems from him. Just a little, though. If anything, this whole conversation had just made me want to keep my secrets to myself even more; Romano was being so wonderful, and we were having such an open conversation, and I so didn't want to lose this just as it was beginning.

"I'll just have to work harder to earn it. And you'll always have the opportunity to do the same," said Romano.

"Oh, Lovi…" I couldn't help it; I wibbled over him like an overemotional parent while he blushed and glared at me. "That was so mature! I'll try my best, too!" I bit my lip, wanting to come off as serious. "I know I did a lot wrong, but I'll work really hard to make it up to you, I promise."

"Don't just blame yourself for everything," grumbled Romano, and I had to bite back a laugh despite myself. It was adorable, the way he was so grumpy even when he was apologizing for something. "It was my fault, too. I shouldn't have pushed you like that." He hesitated slightly before pushing on. "I'll… I'll wait till you're ready to tell me what you need to say, okay? It should be your decision."

Oh. That.

Suddenly feeling cold, I fidgeted with my hands on the table, avoiding Romano's hopeful look. Should I just tell him? That I'd never be ready? That I'd decided against it overall?

"You don't have to talk about it today," added Romano quickly, looking nervous at my expression. I glanced up at him and, despite everything, couldn't help but smile as our eyes met. He was right; it didn't have to be today. I could wait a while. Maybe he'd even forget about it as time went on.

I'd just put this problem off a bit; things were going so well now, and I didn't want to mess everything up when our relationship was still so fragile. A little time never hurt a situation like this, after all.

"Thank you, Lovi," I said warmly, and really meant it. I took his hand, squeezing it and giving him a soppy grin, while he huffed at my "sentimentality" and looked away- pretending not to be completely infatuated with my charms, no doubt. Yep- still got it. I grinned. "It means a lot to me. I said I'm going to try hard to be a good partner, so… maybe I can start by taking you out on that date?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like this chapter's timing is a bit confusing. let me clarify: the first bit is spain thinking back on the night after lovi's meeting with lud, and then the morning after when he has the really dumb idea about love that causes him to blow off lovi on the train, and then they arrive in barcelona and lovi ignores him for a while bc they're pissed at each other.
> 
> sorry for the longer-than-usual wait this time, and thanks so much for the new reviews, favs, and follows!
> 
> thanks for reading!


	15. Spain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch 15: Spain  
> Food Is Dangerous. So Is Being In Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings

So, I took Romano out to this little café I know, walking-distance from my house. I was actually really excited, bouncing around and laughing and pointing out the weird lady who grew hanging flower baskets for the farmers' market and the woman who planted 201 trees in the neighborhood out of her own pocket and the man who painted cars for $15 each and would do cool designs for an extra $5. It was just really nice to finally be out on a date, and to have made up our argument, and that Romano was letting me hold his hand in public.

This enjoyment was somewhat tempered by the fact that Romano couldn't stop complaining about his brother's and Germany's relationship existing.

Only somewhat.

It was a little more bearable if I stopped listening to what he was saying and just focused on the way his hair fluttered in the breeze caused by his furious hand gestures as he expounded on the horrors of having a sibling who would give a "detestably saccharine" smile every time The Most Inconsiderate Person In The World so much as LOOKED IN HIS DIRECTION, Toni, I'm not even KIDDING.

And more along those lines, as we walked along the sidewalk and crossed streets and dodged people yammering into their cell phones and paused to pet dogs and got hopelessly lost and went around in circles and finally found our way to the café and sat down and ordered coffee and pastries and waited for half an hour before being told that the raspberry-filled mini fruit tarts were unfortunately sold out but would we like to try their peach-butter tarts with lemon and rosehip? and even as we just ordered everything chocolate on the menu and even while we were stuffing our faces with chocolate and first-rate caffeine, Romano was still expostulating on the unique horrors of having a brother who liked cakes which were iced with the Italian flag and German flag intercrossing and did Feli even  _realize_ that that flag was supposed to be shared by  _both of them_ and Feli might not apparently give two fucks about being associated with the king of moldy potatoes but he, Romano, was actually gifted with  _some fucking common sense_ and-

I didn't know how he talked like that without stopping for breath, honestly.

"-I don't know, what do  _you_ think, Toni?" Romano asked, and took a savage bite out of his éclair. I was trying not to laugh at the smudge of chocolate on the corner of his cheek, and it took me a second to register his words.

"What do I think about what?" I asked. Romano threw me an annoyed glance.

"What Feli could have done to Beilschmidt to make him act like an immature baby sea lion," he reiterated.

I tipped my head, furrowing my brow. "What  _Feli_ did to  _Ludwig_? How do you know this is Feli's fault?" It was very, very strange to hear Romano placing the assumed blame on Veneziano and not Germany. Besides, from what Veneziano had told  _me,_ I'd gotten the feeling that it'd been Germany who had said something to upset him first. Of course, I'd promised Veneziano I wouldn't breathe a word to Romano, so…

"I don't," admitted Romano, twisting his lips and casting a bitter look at his coffee mug. "But that's what Beilschmidt said- 'Is it altogether impossible that it may be  _me_  that does not desire to talk with  _him_  at present?' That's what he  _said_." When Romano imitated Germany, his voice went low and serious and his eyes narrowed to slits. His German accent was really quite passable.  _So cute._

I tried to pull myself back to the current topic of conversation. "He said that?"

Romano gave me a  _yes, Spagna, do try to keep up_ look. "Yeah, and I don't know what that even  _means,"_ he said. "What would Feli even have done that Beilschmidt wouldn't have forgiven him for by now?"

"I… uh." I scrunched up my nose, trying to figure out how to word this. "Lovi, don't you think it's possible that… maybe Ludwig was just saying that to… um," I wanted to say  _get rid of you,_ but that would be rude, even if it  _was_ Germany and Romano we were discussing here. "...deflect suspicion?"

Romano squinted at me. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…" I wobbled around for a few more seconds, trying to decide how to tell Romano what Veneziano had told me  _without actually_ betraying Veneziano's trust at all. "Ludwig might have just said that to get you to shut up," I tried.

"Um… yeah?" Romano wasn't following. He tipped his chin to the side, regarding me intently; suddenly, I felt intimidated by the sharpness of his gaze, even if he  _did_ have kind of a lot of chocolate on his face. "I guess it'll be useless if I ask you what exactly Veneziano and you were talking about that day you came to visit us, yeah?"

"Oh, yes!" I almost knocked over my glass of water with nervousness. "I, uh, absolutely won't betray your brother, sorry! He didn't even say that much, anyway, so I wouldn't really worry about it, Lovi, haha. It was just about some dumb text Ludwig sent him."

 _Ooops._ If it was possible, Romano's gaze grew even more beady and perceptive.

"I've said too much," I whispered, and upended my cup of coffee haphazardly in the general direction of my mouth. A lot of it went down my face. The rest of it went down the wrong tube. I spluttered as painful fire immediately shot through every single alveolus in my lungs. Romano handed me a fistful of napkins, suddenly looking much less intimidating and much more concerned for my physical well-being.

"Are you all right?" he demanded, standing up and whomping me on the back as I choked. As his fist made contact with my back, a piece of half-swallowed pastry flew out of my throat and skidded across the table with a wet  _splat._ I realized that the sudden wheezing sound ringing in my ears was actually coming from my own windpipe. All around us, conversation ceased as Romano continued to whack me on the back and I continued to cough weakly into my glass of water.

"I'm fine," I managed, eventually, to croak, gulping water and gasping for air. Romano looked half-concerned, half-disbelieving, as if he hadn't even conceived of seeing this level of  _utter failure to be smooth-_ ness in a person before that moment. After a moment, he nodded in a kind of resolute way and handed me another stack of napkins.

We settled ourselves back in our seats. Romano looked at me expectantly, and I struggled to remember what we'd been talking about before I'd choked, hoping to redeem myself somewhat as a conversation partner. It'd been something about that text that Veneziano'd gotten. Oh, yes, that was right.

"Uh, right, Feli and Ludwig. Feli said that Ludwig said that 'maybe right now he just wasn't in a good place for having a relationship'. But obviously he loves Feli way too much to, I mean - he was probably just mad or someth…" I trailed off, staring at Romano's appalled expression as it slowly dawned on me.

"Um, haha, I don't think I was supposed to tell you that-"

"He said  _what?!"_ Romano was completely ignoring the second half of what I'd said in favor of inadvertently crushing the filled donut he'd been about to eat in his hand as he stared at me in horror. Chocolate filling splattered out of it in a graceful arc, hitting him right in the face.

I was starting to think that the fates were just against us on this particular day.

I looked for the napkins, but we'd already used the whole box of them at our table. Romano was now cursing fluently in  _Spanish_ , God knows why, and people were starting to look round in horror, so I turned around to the table nearest us - a perfectly nice pair of girls who probably never asked to witness such an epic date fail - and politely apologized before seizing their box of napkins and shoving it at Romano with a hasty "Forget I said anything!"

"Hell, fucking shit," spat Romano, scraping at the mess on his hand. "I can't believe- why won't he just  _break up_ with Feli, then, like everybody fucking  _wants_ him to-"

This wasn't even remotely true, but I kept my mouth shut and handed Romano a few more napkins.

"And then he just left? What a fucking jerk, absolute fucking loser, pathetic wimpy chickenshit of a person," muttered Romano, although he did seem somewhat mollified and wiped at his face a bit with the napkins as he continued to rant. It didn't seem like  _such_ a big deal to me- I mean, it was just a text, right?- but maybe I just didn't understand the situation, I wasn't sure. If Romano'd sent a text like that to me, maybe I would have been a bit panicky, but I definitely would have tried to talk to him about it. Probably would have hounded him about it for weeks on end until he explained himself, if we're being honest.

Then again, Romano and I had more of an…  _abrasive_ relationship than Veneziano and Germany. If Romano said something insulting to me, I wouldn't take it too seriously, knowing it'd have blown over by the morning. Maybe it was different for Germany and Veneziano- maybe something like that was a lot more uncommon and surprising in their relationship. And though I fancied myself to be close friends with Feli, at least, obviously Romano would know a lot more about his brother than I did.

I sighed.  _Well, I guess that particular cat is out of that particular bag._ Maybe this was for the best- maybe this would help Romano in his quest for justice against Ludwig, or at least somehow assist him in fixing whatever had gone wrong with him and Veneziano. I had a bad feeling about it, though.

After all, Romano had always said he'd do anything to get Veneziano and Germany to break up, and the only thing stopping him was that Veneziano would be horribly unhappy. Now that the situation was, well, like this, who was to say that Romano wouldn't take advantage of it to break them up for good? I loved seeing how happy Germany and Veneziano made each other- obviously they were a really mutually affirming couple. If they decided to break up, it was their business, but I didn't feel good about letting Romano do all this in addition.

Well. Thinking about all this was making my head hurt. I decided to drop it; complex social politics like this had never been my forte. I sighed, again, and leaned my chin on my hand as I watched Romano rant and slice up chocolate pastries into tiny little bits with a butter knife. A stunningly romantic outing, it had not been; little to no actual conversation had been exchanged, I'd almost asphyxiated on a tart, Romano had squirted a donut into his face, every other person within a ten-foot radius of us had stopped and stared at  _some_ point, and I'd told Veneziano's secret to Romano, who was probably planning out how to undermine his relationship even as we spoke.

At least I'd gotten some chocolate out of the experience.

* * *

Then it was leaving a $25 tip and scrambling to keep up with Romano striding angrily out of the café and walking along the crowded street and bumping into 1,000,001 people until I was sure the chocolate pastries in the takeout bag were turning into chocolate mush. And Romano kept on about Germany and Veneziano, as we wound around little back alleys and I tried and failed to draw his attention to nice things like pretty shop windows and cats sitting in pretty shop windows and flowers and as we ended up getting sidetracked by an acquaintance of mine who grabbed my hand the minute he saw me and continued to cling to it while he started talking about  _tax credits._ And then Romano got really into the discussion and I had to drag them away from each other and it was right back to how he'd  _always_  had a bad feeling about that goddamn blonde bastard being way too fucking attached to his work and didn't he even understand about  _making time for your significant other_ and honestly, Feliciano'd given him twenty-five years of his  _life_ , the least he could do was not put dumb government work before his own lover, really, it was really-

At that point, I tuned him out and amused myself by thinking about how I might make something cool and spicy for dinner and eat it in the backyard on a picnic blanket.

We ended up having to walk for a lot longer than I expected, because neither of us remembered the weird convoluted route we'd taken to get here. Even Romano had to run out of steam at some point, so then it was just the two of us walking in relative silence, apart from the background noises of human civilization. That sounds super awkward, but I actually didn't mind much. It was nice, looking down and noticing how our step paces had matched when I hadn't been paying attention.

That was the great thing about Romano. When he had something to say, he'd definitely say it, but when he didn't have anything to say he was just as good to be around. Even watching him was entertaining- the way his hair curled just slightly at the tips, for example. I could spend a whole five minutes just wondering about if his hair would be curly if he grew it out, and how cute he would look in a ponytail.

On the other hand, maybe that's just me being soppy.

And he was so cute when he was angry! I supposed that I should really take him more seriously when he was upset, but it was just really hard to- it was like a little puppy throwing a tantrum. After all, what was there to be seriously angry about, in this world? Sure, I'd seen him angry during wartime, or when he was talking politics, and I hadn't laughed then. But on a date, or over something as small as a bad meal or silly pet name - I thought it was pretty cute. Nobody would actually take that stuff seriously, right? I certainly didn't, at any rate.

Romano seemed to have much more immediate, fiery emotions than I did, though, so maybe it was just that.

"Hey, Toni." Romano's voice interrupted my thoughts; I turned to look at him curiously. He seemed deep in thought.

"What is it?" I asked.

"So… you know Feli and Beilschmidt, right?" he said cautiously. I wanted to laugh- how could I not? He'd been talking my ear off about them all afternoon on our date- but instead I just smiled and nodded.

"What about them?"

"Well…" Romano seemed to wrestle with himself for a second before huffing in exasperation. "I can't believe I'm asking this- do you think they'll stay together forever?"

I furrowed my eyebrows.  _Um. That was direct._ "I… couldn't say." My gut instinct was to say yes, but I knew that Romano disagreed. Still, he was asking for my honest opinion, wasn't he? I spared a moment of bitterness for the fact that I was apparently completely okay with discussing somebody else's relationship, but not my own. "They, well, they kind of seem like a forever sort of couple, don't they? Twenty-five years is a pretty long time to stay together, with no big bumps or anything." I kept expecting Romano to break in with some harsh word of his own, but he stayed quiet, regarding the sidewalk intently as I talked.

"Whatever this thing is they're struggling with, I think they're strong enough of a couple to figure it out. I mean- they're just about due for a heartbreak, aren't they? But heartbreak doesn't mean everything's hopeless," I said, shrugging apologetically. It was my honest opinion, even if Romano seemed to think they were really not cut out for each other. "Sorry, I know it's probably not what you wanted to hear-"

"Yeah, whatever," Romano put in, irritably. "It's what everybody else thinks, too, so I'm used to it. And Feli does … seem happy." He kicked a pebble on the sidewalk as we walked; I checked a street sign as we passed it, making sure we were still headed in the right direction. "I guess just because I really hate the guy doesn't mean that it's impossible for him to genuinely love Feli."

I gasped. "Wow, Lovi! That was so mature of you!"

Romano punched me in the arm, really fucking hard; I yelped and stumbled sideways.

"That's not the point," he grumbled, looking away from me.

"I wish you wouldn't hit me like that," I complained, letting go of his hand to rub the spot he'd smacked. He gave me this look, like,  _oh Spagna what a weakling you are,_ but it wasn't my fault! Romano had never gotten punched by his own fist, so he wouldn't know, but his hits hurt a lot. Not that I could get permanently injured by him; I'm a nation, after all. Still, I didn't like it.

Romano was already talking again, though. "I mean, I get that they love each other a lot. It's actually kind of obvious in a weird way- like, you don't have to see them kiss each other or cuddle or even hear them say anything. Their love sort of…  _glows._ Out of their eyes. It sort of drips out of their facial orifices."

"Aw, Lovi, that's so  _cute,"_ I gushed.

"It's gross," said Romano firmly.

I pouted at him. "Still cute."

"W-whatever!" Romano seemed flustered, now; he looked away from me, blushing. "That's not the point! What I was  _saying_ was that I get that they love each other a whole fucking lot, and that's why they've stayed together for years, but what if they really aren't good for each other?"

"Oh, Lovi." I gave him a comforting smile. Of course, he was just worried about his brother, as always- however furiously he denied it, it was sweet how much he cared about Veneziano. "You said it yourself! They love each other, so you don't have to worry. Fighting a bit in a relationship is normal!"

"I know," Romano sighed, sounding exasperated with me for some reason. "But it's possible that they're in love with each other and they still aren't right for each other, okay? And that would be so much worse than just not being in love with each other at all."

I stared at him.

"What do you mean?" I finally sputtered out. "Being in love with someone means that you  _are_ right for them! That's what being in love  _is_!"

"No, Antonio, it's not." And now Romano was giving me his most condescending look and I could almost  _feel_  the hairs sticking up on the back of my neck. "You sound like Bonnefoy, for fuck's sake. You really think the world is set up that nicely?"

"...Yes?" I tried. "I mean, why would people fall in love if it wasn't because they were meant to be together, that they'd be really good together?"

"Not everything in life has to have a meaning," Romano said bitterly. "Maybe love is one of those things. Maybe the reason it feels so right to be with the person you love is  _because_ you're infatuated with them." He said the word  _infatuated_ coldly, like a scientist; I could tell that this subject had been on his mind for a while. "But everybody knows that relationships don't work unless you put a lot of effort into it. And, sometimes, maybe it takes more effort to make it work than you're willing to put into it. Maybe that's okay, you know? To love someone and be apart from them."

I couldn't understand how Romano could even  _think_ that- that it'd be okay to have the chance to be with your love, and to choose to let them go- you'd have to be insane! "You… do you think our relationship is like that? You think our love isn't enough to make it work?"

"What?" Romano whipped his head around to stare at me incredulously. "No! I was talking about Feli and Beilschmidt, idiot!"

"Oh!" I felt stupid. Romano tended to have that effect on people a lot- without even saying anything smart himself, sometimes. I took a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts. "Well… I still think you're wrong. Even if just love  _isn't_ enough, Feli and Lud do love each other a whole lot, and I think loving somebody that much will make you  _want_ to work out your relationship."

Romano sighed. "I hope you're right," he said, which surprised me. I think he caught a bit of my surprise, because he looked sideways at my face and scowled. "Not like  _that,"_ he snapped, "stop looking so shocked. I'm only saying that because I don't want Feli's damn delicate heart to get broken any more, okay? I still think Beilschmidt should go shove a fucking armed tank up his tight-"

I cut him off, I was laughing so hard. Oh, God, he was the same old Romano at the end of it, wasn't he? Simply brimful with denial.

"Shut up! Asshole!" yelled Romano, and yanked at my hand as I threw my head back and choked with laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it will be romano again in the next few chapters, but i hope everybody enjoyed the chapters from spain's pov! hopefully his character and motives are a bit clearer now.
> 
> SCHOOL'S OUT! hopefully i can have more time for writing now!
> 
> thanks for reading!


	16. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 16: Romano  
> My Boyfriend Doesn't Understand My Need For Closure: The story of my life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for profanity, physical violence

I couldn't believe it.

We were fighting again.

It was literally just five days after our last fight, and the last day before I went back to Italy, and we were fighting.

It would have hurt less if I'd had someone to blame for it, but no- this one was all me. I'd started it over something stupid, and Spain had reacted, and now we were fighting and this was what I was going to remember most of all about this trip when I went home. Not the flowers he'd bought me, not that afternoon in the garden, not how kind of a host Spain had been the whole time I'd been here, not even the days where we weren't talking when I'd sneak down to the kitchen at half past two in the morning and find plastic-wrapped food in the refrigerator.

No, it'd be this stupid fight. And I couldn't even swallow my pride enough to stop it now. The damage had been done anyway; might as well let it all out, let Spain know just what a shitty person he'd chosen to date. He'd got the right to see the real me, anyway. Him and his stupid "true love overcomes all" philosophy- who did he even think he was kidding? Love hadn't prevented the fight on the train from happening, and it wasn't preventing this fight right now from happening. If he really thought love could fix all our problems without him even having to lift a finger, then maybe this fight was for the best- I wasn't going to deal with an attitude like that, so he'd better wise up quick.

I honestly didn't know what had happened to Spain. He always used to be so hardworking in our relationship- always being the one to call me, always being the one to forgive me first when we fought, always trying so hard to be a good friend and be honest and be a shoulder to cry on- he was way better of a friend to me than I was to him, and it's not even a blow to my pride to admit it. That's how wonderful he was.

Now, it was different, and I didn't know whether it was my fault he'd changed, or if he'd even changed at all, or anything except that I was so upset I thought I might cry and it was all over a stupid  _adjective_.

"Aww, you're so cute when you're mad, Lovi!" How many times had I told him I didn't like being called "cute" when I was upset? How many times had he blatantly not listened? I mean, it's not that I didn't want to be called cute- it was nice that he thought so, sure, I could take it as a compliment- but not  _specifically when I was upset._  I just really hated being informed that apparently, my emotional distress was a source of happiness for my significant other. Can you blame me? It was like the only thing he noticed was how I looked, no matter what. Like all I was good for was being cute.

Anyway, it might seem like a small thing to some people; America, that remarkably ignorant piece of pure cow turd, is always going on about how "you ancient ones always go on about the most insignificant shit", which makes me want to stab him a new one, to be honest. Have you ever heard the phrase "History repeats itself?" Well, nations repeat themselves, too; they repeat the same annoying habits, over and over and goddamn over again, and the only ones that are around to witness this incredibly irritating cycle are the other nations- which includes  _me._ Let's just say that once you've seen England and Scotland challenging each other to an impromptu drinking contest a couple hundred times, the amusement starts to fade  _just_ a little bit, you know?

It's the same thing with me and Spain. The smallest things just get repeated so often over the course of our obscenely long lives that if they don't get dealt with, they end up becoming a bigger and bigger deal every time they get brought up. Hence the situation I am now describing, in which I became angry over the tax credit situation and he ignored my very legitimate financial inquiry and instead told me I looked "cute when I was angry", whereupon I overreacted with all the force of a baking soda volcano science project.

So I said something along the lines of, "I DO NOT LOOK  _CUTE,_  I AM MATURE GROWN FULL ADULT WHO POLITICS MATURITY AM," upon which Spain tried to pacify me, as always.

"But you  _are_ cute, Lovi!" he chirped, giving me a sort of gentle smile, like a benevolent sun god looking down upon his small innocent child. "All the time! Come on, don't be mad."

"I'm not cute!" I snapped. "And I wish you would stop saying that whenever I try to have a serious conversation!"

"Is this a serious conversation?" Spain pouted. "It doesn't have to be serious! Lighten up!"

"Not everything has to be all happy, sunshine, daisychains, either!" I retorted, clenching my fists. "I don't like being patronized, bastard!"

"I'm not patronizing you!" protested Spain. "I gave you a compliment! Why are you complaining about a compliment?"

"It's not a compliment if I don't want to hear it!" I said furiously. At this point, I  _was_  considering that this might become a fight, but Spain still didn't look angry, only confused. So, I continued; "And I  _don't_ want to hear that the only thing my fucking lover likes about me is that I'm  _cute when I'm mad!"_

Spain looked shocked. "That's not what I meant! How could you say that?"

"When people are upset, they want to be taken seriously, not made fun of!" I shot at him, bristling. How could he be so oblivious? Did he even mean the idiotic words coming out of his mouth, or was he simply not thinking at all? "I don't exist just to bring you pleasure, you know!"

"But… you're not really that upset, are you?" Spain said, looking genuinely confused. "I mean, I thought…"

" _What_ did you think?" I snapped, illogically interrupting him. "That even though I  _acted_ angry,  _sounded_ angry,  _looked_ angry,  _said angry things,_ it's all okay, because a little child like poor Lovino couldn't actually have any  _real emotions,_ right? Is that how you see me,  _Boss Spagna?_ As a child?" The words came too easily, too quickly. They were well-rehearsed.

"Hold  _on,_ Lovino!" Now Spain was starting to look pissed off. I glared back at him. Good. He  _should_  be pissed off. He shouldn't just be sitting there like a tolerant parent, nodding and smiling at everything I said. At least, if he was angry at me, that meant he was taking me seriously. "That's unfair! All I said was that you looked cute! We -we shouldn't even be arguing about this!"

"No," I said ruthlessly, smacking away the hand he stretched towards me. "That's  _not_ all you said. First, you implied that you didn't even give a shit about what I was saying, then you implied that you didn't even care if I was upset so long as you got your  _cute boyfriend look."_ My nails dug into the palms of my hands. A little part of me was screeching that this was escalating way too fast, but I ignored it. Yelling at Spain felt… good. It felt good, to say all these things, even though I knew he'd never listen to me, any more than he ever had in the past.

Even though I knew it was no use, I couldn't just let it go.

"Lovi-" Spain started, looking annoyed, but I cut him off again.

" _And then,_ even when I  _tried_ to tell you why this upsets me so much, you just brushed me off like it was nothing! You really don't listen to me at all!" I yelled at him, slamming my hand down on the table. "Do you only like me because I'm  _cute?"_

" _No!"_ Spain yelled, standing up from his seat at the table so fast that I almost fell out of my own chair. For a second, I was really scared of him, enough to douse my anger; but only for a second. Then, I stood up as well, palms on the table as I glared up at him. Needles pricked all down my spine.

"You're taking this way too seriously!" Spain shouted, and I almost laughed.

"No, Antonio!  _You're_ not taking this seriously enough!" I screamed back, half-hysterical. "You think everybody else takes everything too seriously, but that's because  _you_ don't take anything seriously at all, except for your own damn self!" Was that even true? Did I even care? "You're so selfish! You don't see  _anybody_ else's needs except for your own! Wake up, Antonio, and realize already that you're the one not taking everything seriously  _enough!"_

" _Shut up!"_ Spain yelled, and grabbed the edge of the table; I felt it shake a little under my own hands. " _Shut up, Lovi,_ what do  _you_ even know about anything? You're so ungrateful- everything I've done for you-"

This time I really did laugh, harsh and incredulous. "What you've done for me? What  _you've_ done for  _me?_ Like when I was a little kid and you traded me around like currency? You think  _that_ was a good relationship?"

Okay. So maybe I'd gone too far.

Spain looked murderous. "You just can't let go of the past, can you?" he yelled. "Maybe you think you've matured since then, but you're  _wrong!_ You're still as immature as the day I met you, it seems!"

"I'm  _not!"_ I protested, almost crying. "I'm  _not_ immature! I'm the one taking things seriously here, and you're the one giggling and thinking the world is all happiness and when people are mad, it's not concerning, it's  _cute,_ and-" I struggled to keep my voice from rising in panic, "you're acting like a fucking  _bambino,_ thinking everything has to work out and be happy! Sometimes the world sucks! Sometimes things really are bad! I grew up and realized that, why can't you?!"

"Just shut up! You have no idea what you're talking about! You have no idea what maturity even means, Lovino!" shouted Spain. "Maturity doesn't mean going around telling everybody that your life is depressing! You think that being critical of everything will make you sound more adult? Let me enlighten you, then- it  _doesn't-_ it just makes you sound like a whiny crybaby!"

"Why is it such a big deal for you not to call me cute when I don't want to be called cute?" I shrieked, at my wits' end, barely even caring how ridiculous that sentence sounded. I just couldn't make him understand- everything was terrible and out of control-

"Why is it such a big deal for you if I do?" retorted Spain, eyes flashing.

"Because it makes me feel like I don't matter to you!" I yelled. "Because it makes me feel like you don't take me seriously! Because it makes me feel like I'm about two years old-"

"-that's what you sound like!" snapped Spain-

"-and I hate it!" I screamed. "It doesn't even matter why! Can't you just, I don't know,  _accept that I don't like you saying it_ and just, just  _stop?"_ My lungs were screaming for air. I realized I was barely even breathing. Spain was heaving breaths like a racehorse. I struggled to draw air into my lungs. "That's what lovers do for each other, right? Forget fucking  _lovers_ , even  _friends_ respect a thing like that! But not you, apparently!  _You never even listen when I say it!_ "

"Why-" Spain actually raised his hand- whether to strike me, or to grab my hand, or something, I wasn't sure- but I was faster. My arm shot out and I grabbed his wrist, slamming it down onto the table with a sickening  _crack._

" _Just shut up!"_ I sobbed, still pressing his wrist into the table as he struggled to break away from me. "I already fucking  _know_ you see me as a little baby, you don't have to fucking  _rub it in!"_

" _Lovino!"_ Spain forced out, his other hand trying to peel my fingers away from his wrist. I found I couldn't let go. My hand was stuck in place. My bones had turned to granite. " _Let go- that hurts, ow-"_

"Not such a baby now, huh?" I snapped, clenching my fingers together with a supreme effort and flinging his own hand back into his face. He stumbled backwards. I took a step forward, holding myself back with real difficulty from punching his face in. "Huh, Boss Spagna? Huh? Am I _cute_ now? Am I?"

"No," spat Spain, backing up as I advanced on him. "You're not -this isn't my cute Lovi! That wasn't cute, stop it!"

" _GOOD!"_ I yelled, grabbing his wrists and slamming him into the wall. I'd expected him to put up more of a fight, but he was easier to shove than I'd expected, and the impact was harsher than I'd intended. "IT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE CUTE! THAT'S THE POINT!"

"Lovi," forced out Spain, "just stop, okay, I'm sorry! Let's just stop-"

"Adults aren't cute," I hissed in his face, "and I'm not your stupid playtoy like I was back then. If this relationship is going to work, you're going to have to respect me like a human being."

"I  _do!"_ snapped Spain, twisting to the side; I held him, even though my wrists hurt. "I do respect you, I have no idea why you're overreacting like this but I'm sorry, okay? I'm-"

"Are you really sorry?" I yelled, straight into his face, my nose an inch from his. "Do you _really_ respect me, or are you just saying it to shut me up?" I lowered my voice, lip curling as I stared into his face. "Think about it for just a few seconds. I know it's hard for someone like you, but really  _think_ about it. I'm  _sick_ of being lied to."

He stared back at me, and I couldn't read anything in his blank green eyes. It made me want to throw up. There was no depth, no apology, no emotion- just confusion. He really didn't understand why it wasn't okay to live life imagining that nobody was really unhappy.

Then I saw his eyes flash, and in an instant he'd pushed himself off the wall and his lips were on mine. I inhaled, choked, gagged, and pushed him away from me so fast that his head cracked against the wall.

" _Idiot! Che! What the fuck-"_ I was screaming; I'd let go of his hands; I couldn't bear to touch him. I was vaguely aware of punching him in the chest as hard as I could. No matter how hard I hit, his body wouldn't go away, solid and alive and disgustingly  _there._

" _Lovino!"_ Why did he keep yelling my name? I shrieked and twisted as hands grabbed my wrists and shoved me against the wall, in turn. " _Lovino,_ we can't deal with this like that, you can't just hit me, okay?  _Calm down!_ Fuck!"

" _I will not calm down!"_

"We- can't do it this way!" Spain yelled over the chaotic screaming in my ears; I couldn't tell if it was just me, or if an army had suddenly charged into the kitchen yodeling battlecries. If I'd been completely calm, I could have brought him to the ground with two well-placed hits for all the strategy he was showing; as it was, my leg flashed out of its own accord and hit him in the shin. I heard his yip of pain, but he held on.

I don't know how long it took, but eventually I calmed down somehow- I tend to black things out of my memory when I get really upset, so it's hard to remember. I mean, I hope I didn't just flail and sob and scream for fifteen minutes straight in Spain's kitchen while he pressed me against the wall to prevent me from breaking down the house, but thinking back on it now, that's really most likely what happened.

Fuck, this is really embarrassing to remember.

Finally, I'm assuming when I'd stopped trying to murder the world for a good few minutes, Spain let me off the wall and sort of guided me to a chair. He sat down opposite me and we just sort of stared at each other, all battled out.

"Look… can we _talk_  about this?" Spain finally said, his voice hoarse.

"What do you want to talk about?" I muttered. My voice snapped back and forth between an inappropriately harsh tone and a whisper; my throat felt like mincemeat. Other muscles might get tougher from long use, but screaming and crying- your voice never gets used to it.

Spain seemed at a loss for words, staring at me as if I ought to know exactly what he was talking about. "I… what just happened."

"Oh, give it a break," I rasped, staring down at my hands. "I'm sorry, okay? I was wrong. There. It can be over now, just like you wanted." I knew I sounded bitter, full of blame; it wasn't intentional, but I couldn't seem to think of anything else. "You didn't want to talk about it then; now you don't have to, okay?"

"No, Lovi. I was wrong, too." Spain looked at me expectantly; I met his gaze. When seconds passed and I didn't say anything, his hopeful expression melted a bit. Like he expected me to fall all over him and praise him for the titanic act of  _admitting he was wrong._

"Yeah, well, no duh," I finally murmured, when it became clear that neither of us were saying anything. "What else is new,  _idiota?"_

Spain gave a hesitant smile, even though I hadn't been joking. "I… I really do want to understand, okay?"

"You want to understand, but you never try to," I said, fiddling with my sore hands; my wrists were hard to move without pain. "Sometimes you have to work hard in order to understand things, don't you realize that?"

Spain looked confused. "Not to understand you, though, right?"

"You're so full of yourself," I snorted. "Do you really think you understand everything about me just because, I don't know, you've known me for a long time?"

"Because we've been  _friends_ for a long time," protested Spain. "And it's worked so far, hasn't it? We make good friends, right?"

"Sure, maybe it seems that way to you," I said reluctantly, stretching my fingers out and looking up in time to see Spain's eyes widen.

"You don't think so? You don't think I'm a good friend?" Really, Spain was so unduly horrified whenever someone suggested he might not be a good person, it was almost amusing. Of course he  _was_ a good person- a sunny, kind, generous, loving person who was way too good for the likes of me- but it was like he saw everything in black and white. Either he was completely good, or he was completely bad. There was no in-between.

"You are a good friend," I admitted; it seemed he'd coerced me into a compliment of sorts after all. "But just because someone is a good person doesn't mean that they don't still do some things wrong, okay?"

"I… I didn't realize that it meant so much to you, when I said you looked cute," Spain said cautiously. "I mean… I'm sorry, and I won't do it again, but-"

"But what?" I snapped. "What else do you need to know?"

"Nothing!" said Spain hurriedly. "I just wanted to know why, so I can try and avoid saying things you don't like next time!"

I rolled my eyes, feeling irritation flare up in my chest again. Honestly, apologizing for something he didn't know why he should be apologizing for was one of Spain's most annoying habits. "You really can't understand why some people might not like being patronized? It's like you're invalidating my negative emotions. When somebody's upset, shouldn't you  _care,_ instead of making dumb comments about their appearance?"

"I didn't think you were  _really_ upset, though," Spain protested. "I just thought that's how you express yourself. You know, by acting angry."

I snorted. "Yeah, bastard, that's how I express myself. When I'm angry, I act angry. Is that so abnormal?"

"Oh." Spain looked me over critically; I shivered a bit under his gaze, feeling exposed and hating it. "Francis told me that he thinks it's sort of like a defense mechanism- that some people act angry to shield their real emotions from other people. He thinks-"

"I don't give a shit what Bonnefoy thinks!" I snapped hurriedly, feeling my chest go icy at his words.  _Defense mechanism? What fresh hell is this- the only reason I act angry is because I_ am  _angry- honestly, it's just like France to say something dumb like that._ "Just a tip, whenever you feel like it might be a good idea to quote France on something,  _it probably isn't!_ "

To my surprise, Spain laughed. "Huh, but are you sure he isn't right?" he joked, laughing again, presumably to himself, since whatever he'd said that was so amusing was completely lost on me.

"Bonnefoy is never right about anything," I said loftily, crossing my arms as he laughed even harder. Honestly, the jerk was always laughing at my misery. Didn't he even care?

"Okay, sorry, Lovi. I'm really sorry." Spain smiled at me. "Can we make up now? Will you forgive me?"

There was a roiling discomfort in my stomach. This situation was so entirely  _wrong,_ all of it- we'd practically been scratching each others' eyes out, it wasn't right that Spain would forgive me so easily.

"Just please try harder," I finally muttered, avoiding his gaze. "And I don't mean  _trying not to call me cute._ That's not why I'm upset. I mean… just try to acknowledge the way you really see me. And if you think the way you view me is okay, then I guess there's nothing I can do about that." I took a deep, shuddering breath, hating how it rasped audibly down my throat. "But, just… really reevaluate whether you truly see me as an equal."

Spain stared at me seriously, and I could tell that he hadn't understood a word of the cryptic junk that had just come out of my mouth. I sighed, loudly. There was nothing else I could do. I considered trying to smile, lighten the atmosphere a bit, but I couldn't quite manage it.

"Okay," Spain finally said. "I'll try. And, Lovi- just one thing-"

I looked at him; he looked back at me, seeming nervous.

"I guess… I didn't want to admit it at first, but it seems like fights are going to happen in our relationship," he said. I snorted, mirthlessly.

"You really expected us to not fight at all?" I demanded.

"Well, maybe I'm naïve, okay?" said Spain defensively. "I said it before and I'll say it again, Lovi; I really do see you as a mature adult, but trying to be needlessly cynical and negative isn't going to make me see you as any more grown-up, okay?"

"I'm not being "needlessly cynical"," I snapped back. "I just see the world the way it is. And the way the world is, is sometimes bad, okay? I'm being realistic."

Spain just looked at me sadly, a bit of a twist in his mouth. Condescending as always. "Okay. Anyway, that wasn't my point. I get it now- fighting is part of being in a relationship. But, if we're going to fight… it can't be physical."

I was taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Spain continued, his mouth set in a determined line. "that we can't come to blows every time we disagree. I don't want you to hit me anymore. ...It hurts."

I actually barked out a laugh. "It  _hurts?_ Well, yeah, that's the point of hitting someone, right?"

Spain looked even more unhappy. "Yeah. It is the point. And I don't want you to hurt me on purpose. That's… not what you do, when you like someone."

The insides of my stomach churned as I fought not to feel ashamed. "Are you saying that you can't even deal with a shorty like me punching you a few times? You're a nation, I'm never gonna be able to permanently injure you."

"I know," said Spain uncomfortably. "But… it makes me feel really bad, okay? We… we love each other." It was like a stab in the heart, the way he had to struggle to get that definitive statement out. "People who love each other don't want to hurt each other. I don't want us to want to hurt each other, either physically or with words." It was his turn to sigh, now. "I want us to feel safe around each other."

My breath caught. That Spain didn't even feel safe around me, that he thought I wanted to see him in pain- no, the more shocking part, really, was that even after the way I'd just acted, he still thought that "I want us to feel safe around each other" was a possibility in our relationship. It was incredibly humbling. All my pride drained out of me, and I had to fight to dredge up some caring to put in my voice.

"Yeah." At the one word, Spain brightened up, looking hopefully at me. "You… you're right. We should feel safe around each other." Once I'd said it, it seemed so obvious, and I fought back another wave of horror at the realization that I'd never realized it until Spain had spelled it out for me in big letters. I was just as bad as him. We were both terrible at this shit. Oh, God.

I struggled to continue speaking.

"And… it's a really long habit, but… I'll try my best, okay?" I scowled at him, just in case he got too full of it. "But you better work so we never have to go to war against each other, all right? I wouldn't want to have to break that promise!"

I wish we'd hugged each other then, or at least smiled at each other - some kind of closure, if you will. What really happened was that Spain smiled awkwardly at me, while I tried to convince myself that all these problems we'd just dragged up out of the murky deep were now solved. It didn't work. The overwhelming feeling of  _this is only the start of the start of the solution_ washed over me with all the subtlety of a tsunami.

I pushed back my chair, bolted for the bathroom, and yarked up my guts in the toilet.

* * *

And what did this whole episode even accomplish? A deep and meaningful understanding of each others' true hearts? An instant cease to all physical and emotional abuse in the Vargas-Fernandez-Carriedo pseudo-household? Pigs growing wings and making it rain shit over Northern Europe?

I wish.

Want to know what really happened? I spent the entire train ride back to Italy sobbing, had to throw up three more times along the way, and arrived back at my house in such a state that Veneziano took one look at my face and went running for the soup pot.

And do you know what else?

In that moment, leaning against the doorway and letting Veneziano's voice wash over me like seawater, I knew that I'd been right, and Spain was wrong.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Love  _was_ a terrible thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently writing torrid, dramatic fight scenes between lovers is the reason i was placed here on this earth
> 
> sorry for the constant angst! i swear this story was supposed to be funny when i first started writing it haha
> 
> but the next chapter is pretty happy and doesn't involve spain.
> 
> thank you for reading!


	17. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 17: Romano  
> Veneziano Makes the Acquaintance of Some Pretty Trees. I Do The Same to Some Slightly Perturbed Wasps.

I woke up slowly. Light filtered through my eyelids and I winced, fighting to not think about the bad thing that was nagging at the edge of my memory. The thing about purposefully trying to sleep, though, is that attempting to do so will fucking banish any remaining trace of restfulness that you ever had within your soul.

So I woke up. And then I tried to open my eyes. For a second, I thought I'd gone blind; as a matter of fact, my whole face was just really gummed up. I rubbed crystals of eye gunk out of my eyes and squinted around; my eyelids were so puffed up that this was a difficult task.

It was technically morning, if you can even apply the term  _morning_ to 11:44 AM. I was sitting in a chair at the kitchen table- not Spain's kitchen table, Veneziano's kitchen table. Shitty daylight the color of a charcoal artist's bathwater was filtering through the window; heavy, wet clouds hung over the sky. There were actual dirty dishes- not even in the sink, but left  _on the table,_ with tomato pulp  _drying on the edges of the bowls_.

I wondered if Veneziano had died.

I spent a few vague, emotionless moments resenting him for finally kicking the bucket and leaving me to sleep on the kitchen table with  _actual dirty dishes._

Then I realized that he, too, was at the table, sleeping soundly with his arms pillowing his cheek. And everything started coming back; the fight with Spain, the hellish train ride, Feli's shriek of horror when he saw my grayish face and bloodshot eyes, and how he'd sat by me babbling comforting nonsense until two in the morning when, I assumed, we'd both conked out.

Then I felt bad for resenting him, because what other person would stay up with their cranky and heartbroken brother until two AM, while cooking (I'd counted) fourteen bowls of soup overall? I mean, only Feli would. And it's not even like he's one of those people for whom "serving others comes naturally", or anything- sure, he's super nice and kind and caring, but what he likes to do most is have fun without needing to worry.

It must suck for him, having a brother like me.

It was around half an hour later that Veneziano woke up; I'd washed the dishes and was making dough for ravioli. His mood, of course, hadn't been affected at all by having to sleep bent over a kitchen table all night, and as we worked together to shape the ravioli, he told me about what he'd done while I'd been gone.

Listening to him, I was struck by a sudden sense of loss- it was weird, but I almost wished I'd have stayed at home with Veneziano and done something fun with him, instead of going to Spain's and shitting all over our already-dysfunctional relationship. When was the last time I'd specifically made time in my schedule for Veneziano? I mean, he was my goddamn partner, my other half in a deeper sense than any romantic relationship would ever be for me. I considered myself to know him quite well, but, as a rule, we spent overwhelming amounts of casual-time together and no quality-time at all.

I guess there was a part of me that was screaming, "See, you can't have meaningful relationships!" in my ear. And another part of me, the part that spoke in Feli's voice, was saying, " _I'll always make time for you!_ "

"I can  _too_ have a meaningful relationship with my brother," I muttered to myself, pounding a bit of ravioli dough into the counter a little more harshly than was strictly necessary.

"What? Sorry, I didn't catch that," said Veneziano. I watched his nimble fingers tuck filling into the pasta shells. He had flour on his nose.

"Oh, nothing." I considered for a second, then went for it. "Actually. Hey, Feli. Let's do something together today."

Veneziano glanced up, eyes bright. "Okay! What do you want to do?"

_Well, that was... easy._

A little taken aback, I momentarily forgot what I'd been trying to say. "Uh. Really?" Fumbling with the dough, I squished one wrong and sent sauce splattering onto my sleeve.  _Shit._ "I mean, okay, yeah. The thing is, Antonio gave me this disposable camera, and he wants me to take pictures with it to send to him... for some dumb reason of his own, I'm assuming."

Veneziano gasped. "Ve, that's really cute, Lovi! And you want me to help you take pictures? It sounds like fun!"

"It's not cute, it's stupid," I mumbled, blushing. Veneziano gave me a horribly knowing look; I ignored him. "But, you know, sappy shit like that means a lot to him- not me,  _him-_ so I thought, well, you're good at taking pictures, aren't you?"

"Oh! Thanks, Lovi, I guess I'm not bad!" The amusing part was that Veneziano was genuinely surprised whenever somebody gave him a compliment. "I'll help you, of course! But don't you think that Antonio would prefer pictures from you specifically?"

I glanced down at the floor, feeling weirdly sad at his comment. Would Spain even care if it was Veneziano or me that took the pictures? Would he even be able to tell the difference? There was probably no difference- they were just cheap photos, after all.

"Nah, he just wants interesting photos," I told Veneziano, looking back up. "I don't think it matters to him that much."

Veneziano looked at me with that  _privately-calling-bullshit_ expression. He's so good with people, he can perceive emotional shit in them that I'd never even fathom. Cringing under his gaze, then, I had the brief, strange thought that instead of learning how to take pictures from him, I should ask him to teach me people skills.

The thought passed. I reached over and grabbed another bit of dough, rolling it between my palms.

"Let's eat lunch and then go, okay?"

* * *

It took twenty minutes to finish cooking the ravioli, a half-hour to eat it, fifteen minutes to clear up, and another fifteen minutes to persuade Veneziano that no, his fancy DSLR camera and tripod weren't necessary at all, but finally we were ready to go.

The sky had cleared up a bit since this morning; it still wasn't exactly a gorgeous day with perfect lighting, but at least there were scraps of blue visible in the sky. We were walking along the same road I'd taken pictures on a few weeks ago.

"So you know the two-thirds rule, right?" said Veneziano, holding the slightly battered disposable camera and peering through the shitty viewfinder at a tree. "It's going to be sort of harder because you can't look at the picture until you get it developed, but I think we can make it work."

"Okay." This was easier than I'd thought it would be- Veneziano wasn't spewing complicated photography terms, I hadn't had to do anything so far besides keep pace with him, and I was feeling much less ashamed about having to learn something from my younger brother than I'd expected. "What do I have to do?"

"Well…" Veneziano smiled slightly as he brought the camera up to his eye and turned to look at me. "Smile!" he suddenly yelled, pressing the top button.

"Wh- no way! Idiot!" I shrieked, batting blindly at the air as the camera flashed three times in rapid succession. "Give me that!"

"Toni will want to see his boyfriend's handsome face!" teased Veneziano, sneaking in another shot as soon as I lowered my hands and grabbed at him. "Come on, Lovi! You're so photogenic!"

"Give-" I made a lunge, "-me that!" Veneziano laughed as I managed to snag the camera from his fingers, aiming it blindly at him and shooting. He struck a different stupid pose every time I clicked the shutter button. "Feli, you  _ass!_ "

"Come on!" Veneziano danced around me and yanked the camera back out of my hands. "Strike a pose, Lovi! You see how it's done!"

"No!" I protested laughingly, backing away as he advanced on me with the camera. "Some teacher  _you_ are- Toni doesn't want to see  _this_ , you big dipshit!"

"Sure he does!" chirped Veneziano, peeking out from behind the camera and giving me an exaggerated wink. "That's because he loooves you, Lovi! You're in looooove-"

"Shut  _up_!" I made another grab for the camera, but Veneziano was too fast for me; over his shoulder, he snapped several pictures of me undoubtedly looking like an idiot as I chased him down the sidewalk.

" _Every man wants to see the visage of his lover,"_ sang Veneziano, ducking gracefully around a surprised-looking man walking his dog; I didn't even bother to apologize as I veered around him as well. " _Every man wants to treasure the likeness of his heart!"_

"Feli, you're an idiot!" I yelled, half-breathless from laughing and running.

"Is that so?" shouted Veneziano, grabbing another picture of me almost tripping over a cat crossing the sidewalk. "It's not a stupid thing to enjoy life, Lovino!"

I huffed - _the nerve!-_ and put on a burst of speed, leaping for him and tackling him down to the ground on a patch of grass. My back hit the trunk of a tree. We lay there, me shrieking curses and him giggling, for a good thirty seconds.

When I could sit up, I grabbed the camera from his limp hand and proceeded to shoot another few pictures of Veneziano lying there in the grass laughing. They were the only really good pictures that'd been taken with this camera, no thanks to my lousy photography skills- Feli was just a good subject for a photo, I guess. He looked quite lovely, carefree and windblown, with rosy cheeks. Classical.

I resolved to send this one to Germany, when I got these developed. Not to do something nice for him, ha, as if I'd do that! -but just to rub it in his face that Veneziano didn't need  _him_ in order to be happy. Call me petty; I was still resentful from the last time we'd met, when he'd blown me off for a stupid meeting.

Why was he even so busy all of a sudden, anyway? All the nations had agreed for years that Germany overworked himself, and he'd still managed to find time to lug his crates of papers to  _my_ house and eat  _my_  food and kiss  _my_  brother in front of  _me_. And  _I'd_  had to put up with it. So what had changed now? Surely it couldn't just be more work that would cause a change like this?

I sneaked a glance at Veneziano, who was now propped up on his elbows and whistling quietly to himself. It would probably be a shitty time to bring it up, right?

As if sensing my thoughts, Veneziano let out a sigh like young, abandoned, European royalty and said, "I haven't heard from Ludwig in a while."

I sighed, too. Even when we were having a sickeningly tranquil moment of brotherly love and familiarity, the specter of that blonde-headed menace would just  _have_ to come in and taint it. Then again, I  _had_  been thinking about him even before Veneziano had mentioned him.

"Yeah?" I prompted cautiously.

Veneziano tipped his head a little, playing absently with a blade of grass. "Yeah. Ever since the fight, he's been really weird."

This wasn't anything that I didn't already know, but, for the sake of preserving the peace, I refrained from saying something characteristically caustic and disparaging, perhaps to the effect of "You are far too good for that piss-soaked slimebag with a heart the size of a pea that contains nothing but machine-like devotion to his incredibly boring and politically-corrupt career, so just fucking dump him already so we can all throw a party and banish him to Antarctica".

Instead, I bit my lip and nodded.

Seemingly encouraged by my silence, Veneziano continued. "I thought by now this would be over, you know? It's never been like this, and we've been together for a really long time… oh, but you probably don't want to hear about it, right, Lovi?"

"No," I said, too quickly. "No, go on. I'll listen."

"Oh." Veneziano looked a bit surprised. "Thanks, Lovi." He plucked the blade of grass from the ground and twirled it between his thumb and his pointer finger, the very picture of nostalgic love. "I mean, I really don't want to give you the wrong idea. It's fine with me if he wants to spend more time on his work, that's his right."

I huffed, leaning back against the tree and folding my hands in my lap. "It's really not healthy, though. Working that much. Stress, and stuff, that shit can ruin your health, even if you're a nation, you know?" I rolled my eyes. "Not that I'd care if he dropped dead of a heart attack, but I'm just saying- sometimes loving a person means calling them out on their bullshit, right?"

And I was  _not_ thinking of myself, or Spain, or  _anybody other than Germany_ , when I said that. Shut up.

Veneziano smiled slightly. "I guess that's true." He shrugged. "Still, what can I do, if he's got his heart set on it?"

"How do you know he's got his heart set on it?" I asked skeptically. What I'd thought Germany had had his heart set on was being with Veneziano. And how calm Veneziano was being about this whole thing- that bothered me. This whole thing must've made him sad, and if he wasn't showing it on the outside, he must've been feeling twice as bad on the inside.

At least, that was how it always was for me.

"Well, he said it, didn't he?" Veneziano shrugged, obviously trying hard to be nonchalant about the whole thing. "He texted me that he'd be spending more time at work, preparing for this big thing, and then he was all cryptic, like,  _I don't really know if I want to tell you about it just yet,_ which seems like a weird thing to say about something to do with work?" He pressed his lips together, tipping his chin up in seeming puzzlement. "But I let it go."

"Then he started canceling a lot of our plans together, and at first he was really apologetic, but then he… wasn't?" Veneziano shifted on the grass to look at me. "And then he said that maybe he wasn't ready to be in a relationship, which really shocked me!"

We looked at each other for a few seconds. Veneziano seemed quite surprised that I hadn't reacted more explosively than I did; too late, I remembered that Spain hadn't been supposed to tell me about that text.

"Uh, wow! What a fucking asshole," I said, belatedly, trying to sound outraged. "Obviously he isn't ready for a relationship, he's… right!"

Veneziano gave me a weird look. I guess he was relieved that I hadn't flipped my shit. Guiltily, I wondered if Veneziano hadn't wanted me to know because he thought I'd overreact. After all, he'd apparently chosen to confide in Spain over his own brother; that must mean that he didn't trust me, or didn't feel that I was a good person to talk to.

Actually, I could see his reasoning there. If I'd been him, I wouldn't have liked spending time with me either. Still, it hurt.

I supposed I'd just have to try and do better.

"So," I said awkwardly, "what did you say after that?"  _Christ, I'm terrible at this supportive-listening shit. Maybe I should attend a communications workshop or something._ The thought made me want to laugh. Do you know the kind of people that even consider going to communications workshops? Those are people who care about things like  _connecting with society as a whole_. I would stick out like a bull in a china shop. 'Hello, my name is Lovino Vargas, and I don't give a flying fuck. Nice to meet you.'

Well, Veneziano was picking up my slack, at any rate. "I said, well, I asked him if he didn't want to be in a relationship with me anymore," he rambled on. "And he said no, it was just that he was very stressed out and he didn't want to have to choose between me and his career, you know? So I said I understood, but Lovi, I really, really don't! I don't get what he's trying to say at all!"

"Well, that makes two of us." I cringed at the words that were coming out of my mouth. Maybe a communications workshop wasn't such a crazy idea after all.

"I know! Right?!" Veneziano threw up his hands, evidently frustrated. "And then there was that fight, and he hasn't really said anything about it since… I feel like he's trying to prepare me for a breakup, Lovi! I mean, do people do that kind of stuff?"

"I dunno," I said, completely out of my depth. Much though I loathe to admit it, I am so often rendered out of my depth by the unpredictable antics of the Bastard Potato King, even now; this was no exception. I thanked God that Spain never fooled around with such passive-aggressive bullshit.

"Neither do I," sighed Veneziano, flopping onto his back again and staring up at the sky. "I'm worried about him, but I'm scared to talk to him about it." He turned his head to the side, reaching for my hand; I let him hold it. "Maybe you could try and talk to him, Lovi? He respects you, I think."

At that, I actually laughed. Again, I'd forgotten that Veneziano knew nothing of what'd happened during the past week. Repeat  _that_  fiasco? Even for my brother, there were limits to what I'd go through. The fires of hell? Maybe. Germany's office again? "Fuck, no."

"Hmm." Veneziano, thankfully, didn't seem overly surprised by my answer. His voice lightened again. "Well, anyway. I guess I'll just have to wait and see what happens!"

I glanced at him, smiling again with his fingers wrapped around my palm, gazing peacefully up at the sky. His partner of twenty-five years had told him that he wasn't sure if he was ready to be in a relationship, and Veneziano had just accepted it. I wasn't sure whether to admire or pity him. Looking at him now, I could so easily see him sitting on Germany's desk, chattering away while Germany signed important documents; the two of them in a little apartment in Berlin, and Veneziano the one to ease the coat off of Germany's shoulders and kiss him when he came back from work; Veneziano bringing flowers for Germany's horrible dull office and drawing pretty ladies on all the meeting room whiteboards.

Why didn't he choose that life? As soon as Germany stopped coming to him, why didn't Veneziano get up and chase after him? Was I supposed to be having some kind of glorious realization about the beauty of  _accepting your fate_ and  _letting what will come, come?_

No. I didn't feel anything except a frankly uncomfortable level of concern about the fact that Germany and Veneziano were pretty much just letting each other, and their relationship, go. Which was supposed to be something that I didn't even give two shits about.  _Damn_ Feli and his fucked-up habit of inadvertently making people care  _way too much_  about his well-being.

Ugh. I wasn't going to dwell on this. What a fucking waste of energy.

"Oy, Feli!" I snapped abruptly, standing up and brushing off my pants. Veneziano looked at me, surprised. "So are you going to teach me how to take photographs or not, cloud-brain?"

* * *

Half an hour, and several mutilated flowers later, I still had not managed to find "a resonating image of beauty deep within me". Somehow, I was more inclined to blame this on Veneziano's gloriously ineffective coaching skills, rather than a lack of latent talent on my part.

So what if I  _did_  have a hard time learning when my instructor's only direction was to "tap your wellspring of photographic power, and let it rise!"? Sue me.

"Try and find things that are naturally beautiful!" explained Veneziano, as I peered through the viewfinder of the disposable camera at twigs and dirt and leaves. "The subject is the entire focus of the picture, so even if you have really good technique, if the subject isn't interesting it won't work."

"No duh," I muttered, distracted by trying to maneuver the lens of the camera into place. No matter how I framed it, the oak leaf that Veneziano was holding against the sky for me seemed bland and unappealing. I took some pictures of it anyway; if Veneziano thought it was a photogenic leaf, it was probably a photogenic leaf and I just couldn't see it. "Am I doing it right?"

"I'm not sure," said Veneziano, tossing the leaf aside and dragging me around the tree. "It's all up to you, Lovi! You need to find a style that  _feels right,_ you know? Art is different for everyone!"

"Thanks, that's really helpful," I snarled, twisting my head like a troubled owl to try and snap a good picture of a flower that Veneziano had picked off the ground. Unfortunately- or, perhaps, fortunately- Veneziano didn't seem to catch the sarcasm.

"Like this!" he chirped, grabbing the camera from me and aiming it with reckless abandon at a nearby tree. "See?"

I peered through the viewfinder, which he was holding steady for me. Somehow, Veneziano had managed to frame the silhouette of the tree against the torridly gray sky in such a way that it balanced perfectly. I have never been a huge fan of nature photography, but even I could tell that Veneziano had found the resonating image of beauty deep within him.

"Or like this!" In another instant, Veneziano had swung the camera away from the tree and focused it on a …nother tree. "See, Lovi? The first tree had a really strong and dominant personality, but this one is lighter and happier. That really helps to set the tone of the photograph!"

"I think it'd be easier to see if I actually cared about the personalities of trees," I observed bitterly, taking the camera back and looking at the second tree. Upon consideration, it did seem a bit more, um,  _free_  than the older one. I couldn't be sure, as an overwhelming lack of interest in the art of discerning arboreal personality traits prevented me from staring at it for more than a few seconds.

"Awh, Lovi, don't be like that." Veneziano, as effortlessly gracious as always, gave me a smile. I could only thank God that he wasn't the kind of person to judge someone by their skills, or compare himself to others. Lord knows I wouldn't be the one to hold our relationship together if he was. "The thing about art is that it starts from outside you, but then a part of you has to go into it."

I paused.

Had Veneziano said something that actually sort of made sense, or was I just going mad from frustration and hearing voices?

"Like that bird!" said Veneziano suddenly, pointing. "Project your own emotions onto that bird and let that guide your camera to the correct position!"

No. I must have been imagining it. I sighed and raised the camera to my eye, snapping a photo of what looked, in the viewfinder, like a strangely shaped tumor with feathers on the branch of the tree. Since when did we even have birds that ugly in Italy?

Maybe it had migrated from France.

* * *

I found it. I FOUND IT. I. FOUND. IT.

The resonating image of beauty deep within me. I FOUND IT.

IN A WASPS' NEST.

Let me tell you, that idea of first needing pain in order to create art? That day, I cultivated an understanding of that idea more deeply than I have ever understood anything before.  _Ever._

All thanks to- no, not Veneziano. Me. Me, and my horrifying-and-newly-discovered preference for photographing highly venomous wasps composed of pure hellish fury over innocent and harmless wildflowers.

It really makes me wonder, are all artistic awakenings this dramatic? For instance, somehow I doubt that when Grandpa Roma, Master of Passive-Aggressive Emotional Childhood Trauma, was teaching Veneziano to paint, his first lesson to the young kiddo involved shrieking and fleeing from an endless swarm of  _Death's winged instruments of torture._ Call it a hunch.

But, even though the experience was near-analogous, in terms of pain, to the time Austria jabbed a rusty spear clean through my chest- I was relieved. There was nothing wrong with me. I wasn't bad at taking pictures. I just liked taking pictures of ferocious, creepy insects, rather than verdant nature scenes. This could, in fact, possibly indicate that there  _was_ something rather  _far_  wrong with me, but instead I chose to linger on the whole "Romano has unique talents" part of the ordeal.

Veneziano was relieved, too. We only got stung thirty-four times between us.

"I had fun today, Lovi!" he said, grabbing my hand and swinging our arms as we meandered, shaking and partially in shock, back up the street towards our house. "I'm glad we got to spend time together; you've been pretty busy lately, so it was good to talk to you for a while."

"I'm glad, you fool," I said, tiredly, and wondered if Veneziano would ever realize the recurring pattern of  _being with literally anyone other than Romano = probably less pain and insanity than you would be experiencing if you were with Romano._ "I feel like I just ingested multiple chainsaws."

"All art requires sacrifice," said Veneziano blithely, and held up the disposable camera. "Besides, you filled up your camera for Spain! Are you going to get the pictures developed soon?"

"Yeah, whenever I find time," I assured him, taking back the camera and studying the slightly scratched-up surface. It was quite rejuvenating to realize that blaming Spain for this whole fiasco was an entirely possible line of argument, seeing as he'd given me the camera in the first place. It was always handy to have a reason to be angry at Spain.

Oh, well. Against all odds, I was actually in a good mood. I squeezed Veneziano's hand and tucked the camera in my pocket. The thought of Spain sifting through all the pictures in there- the cute ones of Veneziano and the weird ones of me, the pointless nature ones and the inevitably blurry ones- and having some idea of how I'd spent my time when I wasn't with him, that gave me a bit of a warm feeling in my chest. I was looking forward to sending them to him.

Maybe I'd keep the photos of the wasps to myself, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as you may or may not know after reading sixteen chapters of this torrid pseudo-romance, i usually make far more sense than i just did in the past 4,500 words. in my defense, i find myself alone and beta-less: misty has fucked off to make music in europe (WITHOUT ME) and i am bereft. blame the intoxicating effects of having, for the first time in four years, no homework over the summer. NO HOMEWORK.
> 
> i am currently adjusting to this situation in the most sane way possible; namely, by reading harry potter fanfiction at two in the morning and shRIEKING LIKE A HAUNT every time the ship kisses. after all, nobody in my life gives a shit anymore if i wake up at noon wearing yesterday's clothes and dog slobber on my face.
> 
> look forward to a return to some semblance of a concrete plot in the next few chapters. beyond that, i can promise nothing. updates may be a bit slower than usual; i'm working on a few new projects and korea is keeping me busy!
> 
> thanks for reading!


	18. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 18: Romano  
> In Which Stress Does Not Do Wonders For My Sunny Disposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for sorta-alcohol-mention, profanity et al

Let me introduce you, on the assumption that you are not already familiar, with the three Ds. They represent the state of my love life on The Night Ludwig Fucking Beilschmidt Would Have Fucking Fucked Everything The Fuck Up, if not for the timely and heroic actions of yours truly.

Don't worry. The Potato King is not here yet. However, you should probably brace yourself for later.

For now, we have Spain, me, a lot of snotty bastards in fancy clothes, and the three Ds.

Date.

Dance.

Disaster.

The "Date" stands for me and Spain, on a date, which he asked me out on, with the premise that "Things ended badly last time, Lovi, so let me try and make it up to you!" Which pissed me off because have I already not gone over the whole needless-apologizing and shouldering-all-possible-blame thing? But of course, I accepted anyway, since I am - after all - a gracious and merciful boyfriend. So, we went on a date.

"Dance" stands for the romantic venue, which, on this particular occasion, was a sort of diplomatic ball; Spain had been invited out of sheer obligation, him being the national personification and all. It's probably the only way he ever gets invited to parties. Anyway, Spain thought for some reason that I might enjoy the company of scads and scads of his political elite, so he took me to the dance.

And, ah, what was the third one? Oh. Right.

" _Disaster"._ Lovely word, that. Stands for the situation we found ourselves in, the date and the dance being what they were. I feel it encaptures the state of my feelings that night towards the world perfectly.

I'm sure you can already imagine all number of things happening, Spain being Spain and politicians being politicians (and, come to think of it, that spiked punch being spiked, which I think I was the only one who caught). Let me set the scene a little bit more- paint a picture of the setting, if you will. It's really quite entertaining... in retrospect.

Me. Spain. Date. Fat politicians. Fat,  _drunk_ politicians. Also drunk Spain. Possibly drunk me. One lady caterwauling in the corner with her sleeveless dress slipping down her bust, who I am fairly certain was not a politician, but who was most certainly drunk.

Dance floor. Large room. Very shiny floor. Very bright lights.

Add in some unresolved relationship issues and unnecessarily innuendo-filled political talk, and we should be good to go.

Oh, and if you're one for even numbers, maybe we can add in a fourth D: Damn.

Damn.

Damn.

Damn, damn, damn.

Damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn.

This stands for my reaction to the Disaster that was my and Spain's Date at the Dance. Take what you will from that.

"Stop paying attention to-  _them -_ and come talk to me," whined Spain, tugging at my sleeve like a child. I bit my lip, turning to face him with an appropriately apologetic grimace at the man I'd been chatting with.

"What do you  _want,_ Antonio?" Honestly, Spain had been like this all evening- first dragging me to this absurd farce of a social event, then having the gall to resent me for enjoying it. Why didn't he go flirt with some government official's trophy wife like he always used to? It wasn't like I was going to be all jealous of him.

Well, maybe I  _would_  have gotten all jealous of him. But that was the way it  _was-_ Spain went to seduce multiple pretty girls at one time, the pretty girls fawned over him like he was the sole point upon which the earth spun round, and I had to be the one to yank the fifth glass of wine out of his hand and yell at him for not paying me enough attention. That was just how it  _worked_.

Not the other way around, with Spain poking and prodding at me like a needy toddler. He was supposed to be light-hearted and generous with his attention, and I was supposed to be the snappy one who was always trying to get him to myself in the hopes that he had drunk enough to create the possibility of sneaking off into some abandoned meeting room and snogging the shit out of each other.

"You brought me to this sordid  _social event,"_ I hissed, softly enough that the people around me hopefully missed it, "and now you're upset that I'm actually enjoying myself? What do you want me to do, then?"

Looking back on, I can sort of accept that I was being pretty ridiculous- wanting Spain's attention, then pouting about it when I had it- but, at the time, I felt that I was being entirely reasonable. It was just a week after the disaster that was the days in Barcelona, things were tense, Spain still hadn't been answering my texts. And, despite his pledge to try harder at the end of last week, I just felt that he was trying to tell me that it would be easier if we just forgot about the whole thing. Like he did with the letters. "Oh, Lovi, this is a really big deal, but it's going to be hard. I know we can do it, but two days later I'll have changed my mind, so don't even bother taking me seriously."

I guess I wanted him to act like everything  _wasn't_ okay. Because it wasn't. And I didn't know how to fix it, or acknowledge it, or anything. All I could do was act stroppy and hope that Spain would catch my general drift.

Which, so far, he hadn't. Case in point, the situation I am now describing.

"You're supposed to be my date," complained Spain, and pressed a sloppy kiss to the corner of my mouth. He smelled of some kind of alcohol- not wine- and sour fruit. I shuddered, pushing him away and glancing around quickly; I caught some of the older women giving us tight, complacent smiles.  _I will do you this favor and tacitly tolerate your blatant gayness._

_Christ._

"So what?" I spat back, a little rudely, taking a step away from him. I was seized with the sudden and somewhat unfamiliar urge to be far away from him, from people in general. Being with Spain was- supposed to be easy, better than being alone. Why didn't this- him, trying to get  _my_  attention for once, not the other way around- feel good? "The point of a dance isn't to spend time with just one person."

"You haven't even danced with me yet," said Spain, giving me his patented pathetic puppy-dog look. "Come on. Dance with meeee."

"I don't want to," I said, yanking my hand back when he reached for it.

Now Spain was frowning. "What's wrong, Lovi?" he asked, grabbing for my hand again- I actually hopped back, weirdly horrified by the idea of having to touch him in front of all these horrible judgmental people. "Did I do something?"

Why had we come here? Why were we sharing this thing- this dare-I-say-it-love between us that was so special and intimate and new- with these people who didn't even care about us? Why had Spain thought this would be a good idea? Why couldn't I just go along with it?

"Lovi?"

God, this was so terrible! So fucking terrible! Why hadn't I seen it before? I could have saved myself- could have pushed him away the first time he kissed me with spaghetti sauce at the corner of his mouth, yelled at him to stop being weird, and that would have been the end of it. Things would still have been easy. I fucking loved him so much- kisses and Spanish love songs were nothing compared to Spain's trust, and the casual attitude he wore when we did something dumb together, just gay best friends who had a hell of a lot of fun.

I'd thought we would still have that, after we started dating, but then I turned around and we'd lost it and it was all my fault. If I wasn't dating Spain, none of this would have happened, I thought. And none of it was worth it. I was so in love with him, I wanted to  _not_ be in love with him. Does that make any kind of sense?!

But it was how I felt.

"-Lovi!"

Spain was shaking me. Everyone was staring at me.

Oh.

"What?" I snapped, trying unsuccessfully to pretend like I hadn't just been staring into space for the last thirty seconds, letting my thoughts spiral drunkenly down into disconnected madness. I don't tend to recover well from these things; the whole room was now looking awkwardly at me as if wondering if I might swoon, scream something dramatic about the economy going down, or die- or possibly all three at once.

"Um… nothing." Spain paused, then apparently decided it wasn't nothing after all and pushed on- another supremely annoying habit. "I just… are you all right? You kind of seemed upset for a second there."

We both stared around at the watchful politicians, who stared back. I could tell that the same thought was going through both of our minds at the same time: would it be rude to tell them to FUCK OFF AND STOP STARING, or were they technically justified to stare as much as they wanted, however rude it was?

So I was, like, " _I'm fine! Stop worrying so much!"_ Except that's not what came out of my mouth. What actually came out of my mouth, in a remarkably and unintendedly snarky tone, was, "Can we not have this conversation right now?"

Which made Spain's eyebrows shoot up into his hair.

"Ah," he said, intelligently, as I scrabbled to figure out how and why that particular phrase had come out of my mouth. "Eh- of course, Lovi."

"I just,"  _-can't stop talking, apparently-_ "would rather not have this conversation here, you know?"

"Okay, Lovi," said Spain, a little tensely now. "Just calm down, okay?"

And that cut it. Spain telling me to calm down was nothing new, but his tone of voice was the same he'd used trying to get me to calm down in Barcelona, and I froze up immediately. It probably showcases how well I'd mapped Spain's physical tells, that I noticed he was getting tense- any normal person would, in his situation, but Spain was not a normal person and would always be cool as a cucumber- even in embarrassing moments. He'd mastered that whole "I've been through more wars than you can count on ya fingers, finding myself stark naked on the rooftop of the most prestigious hotel in Italy is nothing" mentality, while I-empathetically- hadn't.

I immediately jumped to the conclusion that he was just as stressed and worried from the fight we'd had last week as I was. This was reasonable. What wasn't reasonable was the way that thought- that Spain could be just as upset and frustrated and confused over our relationship as I was- made me feel.

It made me feel upset, and betrayed, and guilty. And then angry, because I shouldn't be feeling guilty when obviously Spain had been more in the wrong. Right?

_I am noting that I'm confused right now. But I'm trying to tell myself that there's nothing to be confused about._

"Don't tell me to calm down like that," I mumbled, fiercely aware of the fact that I was making a fool of myself in front of a lot of very distinguished people.

_Ethics. Physical abuse. Morality._

Spain looked a bit offended. "Let's not do this all over again, Lovi," he muttered, stepping closer to me again. "We already worked all that out. I don't know what's wrong, but let's not get into a fight over it."

 _Let's not get into a fight over it._ That. Was. My. Cue.

My chance not to start a fucking fight in the middle of this fucking ballroom. I'd missed it on the train to Barcelona, but this time maybe I could take it. Maybe I could swallow my anger, accept the offer Spain was making, laugh it off, and have it be nothing in the end. Be like Veneziano, just accepting that there are some things you can't change about other people.

I wanted so badly to be able to do that.

But it was getting late, and I was stressed, and the wine was going to my head, and I could still feel the ghosts of Spain's fingers pressing into my wrists. Leaving bruises that didn't go away for hours.

I  _wanted_  to have self-control. I wanted the idea of a Lovino Vargas who could laugh things off, wave a languid hand and be all, "Yeah, it's cool." I wanted to have confidence in the knowledge that, in the heat of the moment, I was the kind of person who  _wouldn't_ do something so supremely stupid that it would come back to haunt me, in my bed at night, staring up at the ceiling, ten years later. That was my goal for myself.

But.

I also wanted, right now, no thought to the future at all- to start a fight. And I could tell from the look on Spain's face that, whatever he'd said before about  _letting it go_ , if I tried to start something, he'd go along with it. He wouldn't be able to help himself.

Our relationship. On the rocks. I'd never expected this- I'd thought it would be easy. Why wasn't it easy? That was like asking, "why isn't the world exactly the way I want it to be?", but I couldn't help thinking it - that we were so in love with each other, that we knew each other so well, so why  _wasn't_ our relationship exactly the way I'd imagined it would be? Did it even bear dwelling upon, when obviously we would never be like that?

As long as everything was imperfect, why not just take advantage of the imperfection of it?

They would say that the goal is to get as close to perfection as possible. I thought that sounded like an exhausting life.

In case this isn't clear, most of what I just relayed back to you was subconscious rambling. My actual, conscious thoughts of the moment went rather more along the lines of  _OH WHAT THE FUCKING HELL_.

So.

"Well, who's the one making this a bigger deal than it is?" I snapped, rounding on him; his eyes widened, and my stomach jolted oddly for the second before his face closed off, just as I'd expected it to.

"What the hell, Lovi?" he said, sounding more surprised than anything. "Wha- what are you talking about?"

"It's you," I said, illogically. "This is all your fault!"

"What?!" protested Spain, recoiling. "What's my fault?"

 _This. Everything._ The room was spinning a bit, like this was a dream and I'd wake up any minute.  _You're everything to me. You're wrong. Everything is your fault._

_This whole situation is your fault…_

"If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you," I huffed, sticking my nose in the air.

" _Lovi!_ " yelled Spain, making several of the people clustered around us yip in surprise, "That's not  _fair_!"  _Now_ he really sounded frustrated; I tried to hide it, but I was pretty surprised as well by how easy it had been to wind him up. Maybe he was more stressed by the situation than I'd expected.

"Who cares, you sound like a fucking  _bambino,"_ I shot back, ignoring the scandalized glances a few of the ladies in the back shot me. God, mortals were so petty- in the blink of an eye for me and Spain, they'd be dead. They couldn't do anything to me, but I could do everything to them.

_And yet, these are Antonio's people. His children. I should be kinder-_

"Does this mean that the Italian-Spanish relationship is not as secure as we have been told?" one woman said, loudly, to her companion. "Have the governments been keeping a secret conflict between the nations from the public eye?"

 _Oh, honestly- fuck_ that,  _then-_

"For God's sake control your damn politicians, Carriedo!" I yelled, and all hell broke loose.

"We control the nation, the nation does not control us!" somebody screamed, and Spain grabbed my sleeve and yanked and I yanked back and then we were stuck in a sort of farcical tug-of-war in the midst of a roiling mob of political talk.

"Lovi," screamed Spain, above the noise, "I have no idea what this is all about!" I pulled my sleeve roughly out of his grasp, waiting for him to say more, but that seemed to have been the extent of his thoughts on the matter. Somebody sprinted - actually  _sprinted_ \- past us, knocking me back into Spain's chest; he grabbed my shoulders before I could twist away, so instead I shrieked into his face.

"That's obvious, given how poorly you're handling this situation!" In my defense, shrieking was somewhat necessary in order to be heard amid the ruckus; Spain flinched and squeezed his eyes closed anyway, although his grip on my shoulders became iron-like.

"Let's get out of here!" he yelled, and I couldn't argue with that.

* * *

Which brings us up nicely up to the beginning of this chapter; we could consider the Date to be effectively over, the Dance to have been effectively ruined for all those present, and the Disaster… well, the Disaster was ongoing, but soon to be abruptly cut off by my storming away from the scene, in tears, with wine all over the front of my suit.

But I'm getting ahead of myself- at the moment, none of the storming off had yet occurred, and Spain and I were standing together outside the dance hall.

"What the hell was that all about?" demanded Spain, actually waving his arms around in the air.

"Why don't you tell me what the hell that was all about, seeing as you were the one who caused it!" I was also waving my arms around.

We'd both had a bit too much to drink.

"That whole thing in there was all your fault, and I'm not fucking covering for you this time!" shouted Spain, pointing dramatically at the entrance to the hall. "What the fucking hell were you even thinking? This is going to be all over the news starting tomorrow- ayyy,  _Dios,_ I don't even want to  _think_ about it- my government won't let me near you with a ten-foot pole after this, Lovino, do you even understand?"

"I understand perfectly!" I snapped back, seething. "You're ashamed of me, right? You take me to some fancy-ass social event to show me off, show your people you're not a  _complete_ loser-"

Spain's face was livid. "How  _dare_ you-"

"-and then you have the nerve to blame  _me,_ when  _your_ goddamn politicians start behaving like rabid galloping tabloid journalists?!" I ranted at him. "I don't give a shit if your government doesn't approve of you taking me out to public places! In fact, I may even agree with them! Why you don't just keep me in a corner of your basement to fuck when you want me-"

" _Shut up!"_ Spain's fists were balled up by his sides. " _Shut up, Lovino-"_

"You always do this!" I was nearly crying. "Every fucking time I say something you don't want to hear, you just tell me to shut up, like that will make everything okay!  _Fuck_ you, Antonio, why can't you just fucking accept it when you're wrong? Why does it always have to be someone else's fault?!"

Spain stared at me, then laughed harshly, the light from the door and the darkness of the sky cutting his face into unfamiliar shadows. "You honestly believe this is my fault.  _Dios,_ Lovi-  _Dios,_ I'm not going to take your shit anymore, I told you!" His chin was tilted up- just slightly, but I noticed it, a thin line of light running down his neck. "Just own up- I'll forgive you, I won't even be mad, okay? But I'm not going to pretend like this is my fault when it  _isn't."_

Isn't this what I wanted? I wondered, staring at him in the sharply cut half-light. I wanted him to start standing up for himself, to stop apologizing every time I got upset, to stop taking all the blame. I'd felt guilty, then, that he felt the need to do that. But now that he was- saying these things- I found that it was harder than I'd expected, to not have him to fall back on blaming.

"Everything's different now," I whispered, my voice - traitor it was - clogged up with tears. "God, I just- I feel like I'm repeating myself, but-"

"It doesn't have to be different," said Spain, forcefully. "It doesn't have to be if you don't want it to. I… I don't want it to be different, either, Lovi."

"When we were just friends, it was better," I said, raising my voice to match his. "Why the fuck'd you have to go and  _change,_ Toni?"

"Me?  _I_ changed?" Spain was almost yelling again. " _You're_ the one that's changed, Lovino! I just wanted us to have fun! How was I supposed to know you'd somehow manage to make everybody angry? Back before we were dating, we would have had fun at an event like this!"

"No, we wouldn't!"  _I_ was yelling, now. "You would have had a great time flirting with every person in sight, and I'd just be in the corner sulking!"

"Well then, it seems like you're fucked either way, right?!" Spain snapped. He looked pale, the veins on his neck standing out. I wasn't sure what this was- it wasn't exactly a fight, but it wasn't a truce, either. It was like we were standing on the precipice of a tall cliff, wondering if the other was going to push us over.

 _He hates me._ I couldn't stop the thought from ballooning in my head, blurring my vision. Damn these tears. Fuck.

This whole thing was so cliché I couldn't stand it. Who knew a cliché could break your heart so?

"God." Spain pushed a hand roughly through his hair. I stared at him, trying to drink in the sight of him, to process the stiff lines of his shoulders, the crinkles of his eyelids, the slight dimple at the corner of his nose that hadn't been there before- like he was wrinkling his nose at a bad smell. I'd barely ever seen him like this before, so empty of reassuringly hot emotion. When Spain was angry, he was angry like the sun exploding. Not like this, somehow untied, less like a forceful explosion and more like pieces quietly slipping out of place.

"God," he said, again, and this time I took a step forward, sensing a pause in the back-and-forth of our verbal battle, a raw and tender silence that would magnify any words I chose to use to fill it.

Would we stop this now?

Fuck, was it even worth it, in the end? Maybe life really was a here-and-now. Maybe there was nothing else in the world, just Spain and me and this one moment. Maybe it didn't matter if I took a bludgeon to this breakable thing that was him-and-me, because everything would end, everything would end after this, and maybe I should just do what I wanted, what I felt.

Maybe what I felt was the need to break it- something which was breakable, but still intact. The perfect temptation.

Spain looked at me and said, "Why are we even doing this?" He said, "Lovi, let's just end this fight now, okay?" He said, "Please…"

I said, "Let's break up."

And then I turned and ran.

* * *

When I got home, Germany's car was in the driveway and somebody in my house was shrieking fit to wake the fucking town.

* * *

(God, that was so utterly overdramatic. "And then I turned and ran." Really, self? Really?

Anyway, usually I prefer to have endings just be endings, but in this case I really do feel a moral obligation to warn you about the complete and utter GERMANFAIL that occurs in the next installment of this godforsaken shitpuddling narrative. Have you no desire to break your skull through constant and inadvertent facepalming, which I assure you will definitely be your reaction to the utter disgrace to all romance that is my depiction of Master Potato Head's relationship with my saint of a brother in the following chapter, I advise you skip it.

Was that a bit of a moodkill? Well. Who cares.

This has been your UPCOMING GERMANFAIL warning. I have done my duty. Don't expect me to be this considerate again.

Lovino Vargas out.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idek what this chapter is i still have no beta d o dg e  
> SO IK A LOT OF YOU ARE WONDERING ABOUT GERMANY AND VENE  
> YOU WILL FIND OUT IN THE NEXT CHAPTER :O
> 
> thanks to new followers and reviewers ;u; !
> 
> and thank you for reading!


	19. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 19: Romano  
> Lovino Vargas, Relationship Counselor Extraordinaire
> 
> Warnings for Lovino slapping people, profanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Lovino slapping people, profanity

Recap: My house. Germany's car. Shrieking.

_Feliciano._

I launched myself out of the car and sprinted up the driveway, screaming Veneziano's name as I bolted around the house. Just as I reached the door, it slammed open and Germany stormed past me.

_You!_

" _Beilschmidt!"_  I yelled, swiping at his sleeve, but he brushed past me so fast he was already out of sight by the time I managed to turn my head. Slews of ideas about what the bastard could have done to Veneziano were streaming through my head. I turned and dashed into the kitchen.

Veneziano was sitting at the kitchen table. He wasn't crying. He was screaming.

I stood there, in the kitchen, and stared and stared as Feli screamed and screamed. It was like some kind of horrific, hypnotic chant- I was frozen to the spot until he gasped for air. Before he could start screaming again, I ran forward, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look up at me.

" _Feli!_  Feli- stop-  _what the fuck happened?"_

Veneziano stared at me, his eyes huge and swimming with tears.

"Did he-" I could barely breathe, " _did he ask you to marry him?_ "

I think the fact that that was the first thing to come out of my mouth shows that I have some serious unresolved problems.

"Lovi!" shrieked Veneziano, his eyes bugging out of his skull. I assumed that was a no. His hands leapt up to clutch at my shirt. He didn't seem to care that he was getting wine all over his fingers. "Ludwig!"

"Yes, I  _know!_ What did he do, Feli?" I touched his face, his neck, searching frantically for any trace of physical injury on his body- flashbacks of him, carrying a flag that was so bloodied it wasn't white anymore, dripping with blood because he refused to fight when the enemy found him, and I hadn't been there to blow the knives out of their hands with my pistol- "Feli, you need to tell me what he did-"

"Ludwig," said Veneziano again, desperately, as if he was trying to say something, "Ludwig-"

" _What,_ Feli?!" I grabbed his shoulders and shook him slightly, my heart thudding. "Wh-"

"Ludwig is leaving!" shrieked Veneziano, his eyes popping.

The sound of a car engine starting up, outside.

_OH FUCK HE'S GETTING AWAY-_

_But Feli needs me-_

_You were not placed on this earth to protect your younger brother. You were placed on this earth to beat the shit out of your brother's craptoast boyfriend when he needs beating up._

_You know this._

I hesitated a split second, then wrestled Veneziano's clutching hands from my shirt and bolted out the door.

Germany's car was backing out of our driveway, turning onto the road. Before I could even register that this was happening, I was running into the street, leaping the last few feet to sort of  _slow-motion soar_ into the path of the car. I caught a glance at Germany's face through the windshield- I couldn't tell what his expression was- before my eyes flew shut of their own accord.

_I'm going to die. Damn, what a bother._

I braced myself for the inevitable unpleasantry of getting run over by a car.

Instead, I heard a sound that could have been either the sound of a car screeching to a halt or Germany screaming. The next moment, I hit solid concrete, right shoulder first.

I think I may have blacked out for a second, or maybe I just had my eyes closed. I can't tell, because the enormous pain that exploded through my shoulder would have blanked any possible coherent thought that might have passed through my brain. What I  _can_ say is that when I opened my eyes again, Germany was clutching me in his arms and yelling my name.

It was awkward.

I stared at him. He stared back.

"Are you all right, Lovino?!" he finally stammered, shaking me slightly.

I muttered something that probably went like, "The  _pain_ …" and punched him in the face.

"Lovino?" yelled Germany around my fist. "Are you all right?! You're not hurt-"

"Get the fuck off me!" I snapped, grabbing my shoulder and shoving him off me. The world was resolving around me again; I struggled to my feet. Everything was horribly sore, but only my shoulder was immovably painful. Ignoring Germany behind me, I took stock of my surroundings.

Veneziano's sobs, still coming from the house. Germany's car at a very strange angle, almost perpendicular to the road.

 _Did I just_  leap in front of Ludwig Beilschmidt's car  _to prevent him from leaving Feliciano?_

_Yes. I did._

"Lovino, are you  _all right,"_ Germany demanded for the third time, and I turned to face him. He actually sounded quite concerned- I wouldn't have expected it. Maybe, I thought, he just felt guilty for almost hitting me with his car. He really was going soft.

"I'm fine, bastard," I snapped. His face hardened.

"Then what the  _hell_ do you think you were doing?!" he yelled, striding over to me and grabbing me by the shoulders. He gave me a little shake, like he was trying to shake some common sense back into me. "Lovino- you could have been  _killed!"_

"Like you'd care!" I yelled into his face, twisting free of his grip once again. "What the hell do  _you_ think  _you're_  doing, for that matter- driving off like a fucking coward and leaving Feli to cry alone?"

Germany glared at me. "It cannot be helped," he snapped. "Our relationship is now over, just as you have always wished. There seems to be no way to make the separation easier."

"Excuses, excus-" I cut myself off as the realization hit, the words choking and dying in my throat because  _waiT HOLD UP WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY._

" _Our relationship is now over."_

I stared at him.

He stared at me.

" _What?!"_ I finally managed, in a sort of strangled tone. " _What did you just say?!"_

"We. Ah. What is the colloquial term for it?" Germany looked  _flamingly_  embarrassed. I'd never seen his face quite so tight, and that was saying something. "Broke up."

"You b _ROKE UP WITH HIM_?" I shrieked, rivalling- in pure decibel level- Veneziano's sobs from the house. Germany flinched away from me the way a person would flinch away from an angered adolescent velociraptor.

"I didn't think it would cause him such distress-" he protested, flustering a little more. "He seemed calm about it when I told him about the job opportunity-"

"You didn't think it would cause him  _distress-_ I can't  _believe-_ no, never mind that, what do you  _mean, job opportunity stop rigHT THERE,"_ I demanded, snatching his wrist as he tried to move away and holding it up between us like a piece of incriminating evidence. "Beilschmidt, you are not leaving until  _this situation-"_ I thrust my other arm towards the house, "-is rectified, so you'd better get to explaining  _right now_  what the fuck it is. That. You. Have. Done."

A spiraling silence.

I slowly became aware that Germany looked like he was about to melt into a puddle of abject misery.  _Of course. He just broke up with his lover._

_He just broke up with his lover. HOLY SHIT. I cannot believe this. THIS IS UNREAL._

"I have been offered an opportunity to join the German mission in partnership with the African Union of sub-Saharan Africa," Germany muttered, sounding like he was reading the words off a script. "Unfortunately, the job will be very demanding, and I will not have time to fly back and visit for a very long time."

I was speechless.

"Communication opportunities will be few and far between," continued Germany, pulling his hand out of my limp, shocked hand. "So I decided that it would be best for both me and Veneziano if this relationship terminated. It is for his own sake."

We stared at each other. I'm sure my jaw was hitting the ground. Germany looked like he wanted to reach out and close my mouth for me.

The mystery of the past few weeks was solved. Solved! Everything- the vague "big project" Veneziano had talked about, the tighter schedule, the stress I'd seen Germany exhibit- all of a sudden, it was perfectly clear. Germany was going across the ocean. Germany was taking a new job.

And, most relevant of all- Germany was breaking up with Veneziano.  _Had_ broken up with Veneziano- the deed was done. I should be dancing with joy. I should be throwing fucking  _confetti_ into the sky! And not only that, he was going to  _Africa,_ for God only knows how long- I was shot of him, completely and utterly shot of the man who had made my life hell for decades- and-

"You- that- that is  _the most stupid thing I've ever heard in my life!"_ I gasped, when I had my voice back, and slapped him across the face. It was a bit of a reach for my short arms, but I managed to hit him pretty hard. "You have no sense of romance! Oh, God,  _how_ you even got this far in life-  _unbelievable!"_

 _-_ I couldn't fucking  _let him go._ My whole being was shrieking that I was making a gigantic mistake, that I should be chasing him down the street with a torch of blazing hellfire to get him to go away  _faster,_ and instead I was leaping in front of cars to get him to  _stay._

It was just that when it was actually happening, the whole thing seemed a lot less ideal and a lot more…  _wrong_. The background soundtrack of Veneziano's agonized wails definitely didn't help, for one. He was leaving my brother so unhappy- it was obvious he hadn't wrapped things up properly, and at the very least I was going to make him do that before he left. But, more importantly- he was choosing, yet again, his  _job_ over his  _lover._ The lover that happened to be  _the_ most important person in my life. Germany hadn't been around to see how miserable it'd made Feli, that the job had kept him away from him.

But I had. I'd sat around and listened to him whine and mope and fret, and it had made me realize all over again how fucking  _in love_ Veneziano was with Germany. Stupid passive "life will be what it is" attitude or not, I knew that Veneziano (for reasons that were becoming more fathomable the longer I stood and watched) really,  _really_ cared about Ludwig Beilschmidt. God, it's like repeating, over and over again, the phrase "water is wet".

Germany was going to fuck this up  _now?_

I wasn't going to let this happen. I couldn't.

I was... going to…  _keep Germany and Veneziano together._

I felt a new wave of resolve rush through me at admitting it. Fuck yeah, I was going to save these two losers from their own romantic clusterfuck! Germany was going to fucking PAY for hurting my brother like that. He would understand that Veneziano, Veneziano's happiness, was the most important thing- more important, by far, than any petty job Germany could fiddle around with for a few years. Hell, I'd always known what a loser he was, but- staggeringly low expectations or not-  _nobody_ got away with treating my brother like that.

And my brother had bestowed an incredibly precious trust and love in this person, a person who had even hurt him in the past, and he was  _throwing it away,_ and fuck if I could bear to see  _anyone_ , even if it  _was_ Big Boss Spudster Man, just give up something as valuable and irreplaceable as that.

 _And -_ need I repeat myself?- It. Was. All. For. A.  _Job._

 _How_ he could not see it the way I did-

I leaned up on my tiptoes and smacked Germany again. " _Fuck_  you!"

"W-what?" Germany stared down at me with a horribly pathetic look, like he genuinely didn't understand why I was upset. "Lovino, please stop hitting me-"

" _Idiota! Che!_ " I snapped, squaring up to him, my fists clenched. "You deserve a good hit for this! YOU CAN HE _AR MY BROTHER CRYING FROM THE STREET_! And you choose a  _government job_  over  _him_!" I seized both his wrists, yanking him down to my level so I could push my face into his and glare threateningly. "I don't  _understand_ you at  _all,_  Beilschmidt." I said, trying to make my voice all low and threatening.

"The sentiment is returned," said Germany, sounding a bit strangled.

"So why don't you  _try_  and  _help me understand_ -" I broke off. It was no good. The situation was too ridiculous; the mood had been effectively murdered. I let go of him, rocking back on my heels. Germany watched me warily, as if expecting me to flip my shit again at any moment.

I sighed. It was way too fucking late for this conversation. "Look, Beilschmidt," I snapped, "just tell me one thing: what the hell about this job is so important that you'd leave Feli behind to do it?" Germany still looked like a man in a pit of lions, so I tried to soften my tone a bit, although I think it just came out wheezy. "I mean… you do  _care_ about him, right?"

"Of course I care about him, Lovino," said Germany, stiffly. "It… will probably be one of the greatest regrets of my life, to have caused him this pain tonight. I have loved Feliciano more deeply than I could ever have imagined without having felt such."

 _(Whoa._ Okay. So this had just gotten really intense, really fast.)

"Please do not assume that the decision to end this relationship was a willing one," said Germany. He truly sounded really, really sad, but also somehow resigned, as if he'd gotten over it years before the actual fact. I wondered how much faith he had in Veneziano's love. "But I don't wish a long-distance relationship for us."

"Um," I said, intelligently. "So… if you, eh, care about him so… deeply…" I trailed off, hoping Germany would get the point, but he just stared at me as if desperately willing me to stop talking and drop into the abyss. "I just don't fucking get why you're going to leave," I finished, somewhat anticlimactically. A sudden thought struck me. "You- your government isn't forcing you to leave or something, right? Because there are things we can do about that- I mean-"

"Lovino," broke in Germany, sounding exhausted, "I realize that there is no lost affection between the two of us, but  _must_ you drag out this torture so? You have always wanted me gone, so I'm begging you to just let me leave now, and I promise I will not return later to cause you trouble."

I gaped at him. He looked away, seemingly uncomfortable with being stared at so much. There were tense veins sticking out on his neck; the bags under his eyes, in the sharp lighting of the street light, gave him the same unfamiliar pallor as Spain had- Spain, outside the dance hall- red wine on his collar-

_Let's break up._

Aaarghskjdhdfsotssssdfjkhfdbbbbbut I couldn't think about that now.

Wouldn't.

Mustn't, because if I did, I'd break down and cry and - and Germany would think it was because he was leaving, which it  _wasn't,_ and I... didn't want  _Germany_  to get the wrong idea, so I had to fucking keep it together. And… for Feli.

So.

"I don't care what you think of me either, goddamn slimy workaholic bastard," I sneered, trying to recover myself. If Germany had noticed my millisecond of lost cool, he didn't react to it beyond pulling his mopey expression down a little mopier.

"This isn't about either of us, okay?" I told him. "This is about Feli, because both of us love Feli, and neither of us want Feli to scream-" again, I pointed towards the house, "-like that, ever again. So you're going to call your work right now, and tell them that you're very sorry but you think they've made a mistake, you tell them can't take the stupid job in Cameroon or Eritrea or wherever the fuck it is because you have somebody who neEDS YOU  _HERE, IN EUROPE."_

Without quite meaning to, somehow, I had lapsed into yelling at the top of my lungs. Really need to break that habit sometime.

Germany was cringing away from me just slightly. "I can't do that."

"Why the fuck not?!" I demanded, throwing my hands up in the air.

"This job is important," Germany said stubbornly. "Feliciano is very important to me, but to take this job is my own personal choice, and no amount of hitting me or scolding me will change my mind."

His gaze flickered back to the house. "I have thought about this for a very long time about this- longer than either you or he realize. Lovino, Feliciano is a much stronger person than you know. He may cry for these few days, because that is his way, but tears don't mean he is as weak and miserable as he sounds."

I watched his pale eyes soften as he looked back at me, a new flicker in his eyes, as if he'd reminded himself of something that he'd temporarily forgotten. Seeing him, suddenly so sure of his words, I caught a glimpse of the man that I knew my brother to have fallen in love with.

(Just a glimpse, mind. Arrgh. JUST A GLIMPSE.)

(I STILL HATE HIS STARCHY GUTS.)

"If this decision- to leave Feliciano- were to totally crush his spirit, I would never do it," said Germany. "But I would also know that if the decision to leave him would provoke such, then there would be something fundamentally broken in our relationship. We are not two halves of a whole, but two wholes temporarily come together. And now, taken back apart."

"That was deep," I blurted, almost without thinking. I wasn't in the best mental state ever at the time, if you'll recall- bit of alcohol, nasty breaKUP THAT I WASN'T THINKING ABOUT, unholy hour of the night, you get the picture. Loose tongue.

Germany winced, as if I'd shattered something very wobbly and intricate made of glass.

"I mean. I think I know what you're saying," I said, and it was like I'd temporarily forgotten that I was talking to one of my worst enemies, who'd just insensitively dumped Veneziano and tried to run off to a different continent. "I wasn't suggesting that Feli wasn't strong enough to handle life without you- pfft- I'm just saying, you guys are better together- I mean. Everyone thinks you guys are better together!" I was babbling. Christ. "What's so great about this fuckin' job, anyway?"

"It's a good opportunity to do research with some very talented scientists," said Germany blandly, as if he'd rehearsed his answer beforehand. "People should get the chance to do things that they are passionate about. I wish to make a difference to the world."

I choked. "You want to make a difference to the world? Are you kidding me? Haven't you made enough differences for a lifetime?!" Me, as a nation, I struggled not to influence people. Germany was seriously using his status as a nation  _this_ way? "We're nations! We don't do those things!"

"Really?" Germany countered, quickly. He seemed to have forgotten about making his escape. "Nations have relationships. They have jobs. They have hobbies. Nobody would look at Feliciano's artwork and say, 'That is the product of the assimilation of hundreds of different Italian citizens' talent'. We represent our people, but almost by definition we  _are our own people."_

I didn't think Germany had ever said more than three terse sentences in a row to me at once, let alone  _this._ I could only conclude one thing: he, Germany, was  _enjoying_ explaining this thing to me, Romano.

Or maybe  _enjoyment_ is too strong of a word. More like, I was taken aback that he, Germany,  _gave a fucking shit_ about talking to me at all.

Gaping, I stared at him as he continued to talk.

"This is my chance to be extraordinary by being ordinary, Lovino," said Germany. "I would like to be worth something for myself, and not simply because I am a personification. I don't reject my own nature, but I would like to recognize the parts of that nature that I've left unexplored up until now."

_I would like to be worth something for myself, and not simply because I am a personification._

I stood there, not moving, processing his words. That. Was that an answer that I had been searching for without knowing it? Because it felt so, like something was clicking into place that I hadn't known. After the political clamor of the dance I'd left behind, this simple statement from Germany felt…  _right._

Insofar as anything that came out of Germany's mouth could feel  _right._ Tttthat is.

(denial denial denial denial denial denial denial)

That was the way Spain made me feel- or had made me feel- not always- not tonight- I WASN'T THINKING ABOUT THAT THOUGH DAMMIT - no, before that, even before we started dating, just being around him made me feel like a normal person, just out of college maybe, throwing together some shit with leftovers from the refrigerator, watching terrible dramas together on the couch. Is it weird that I keep romanticizing watching crap TV on the couch together? That really meant a lot to me.

Of course, nobody who looked at me would be like, "Ah, there is a person who takes his responsibilities as a representative of his people very seriously indeed!" But, even if you don't fucking  _throw yourself into it_ \- like Germany, for example, or England- the reality of it pervades everything you do. How could it not?

The economy. Trade. Public opinion. Government. Politics. All of it buoyed up, tied together, by the incredibly delicate and complex construct of sheer humans imagination. Running through my blood.

I can't even try to explain it to you.

And… an escape from that? Or… perhaps… a reconciliation, with the two parts of me- the nation and the person?

Spain made me feel like that.  _Love_ made me feel like that. Not  _love_ as in "take me on a date, kiss me on our bed" love, but "God have you done some shitty things to me, come here for a hug because I fucking forgive you"  _love love love._ And doing things that I was interested in, too- like Germany had said, with his job- gardening, and photographing vicious insects.

But mostly love. Mostly other people. The connection with others- that was what made me feel like myself.

And Germany-

I jolted out of my thoughts, glancing back up at Germany, who seemed entirely unaware of the chain of thoughts his words had provoked.

_A reconciliation between two different parts of yourself… two equally important parts…_

"I wouldn't expect you to pay any attention to what someone like me has to say," he muttered, noticing that I'd looked back at him. He sounded disappointed somehow, like he'd expected more of me while feeling that he knew he shouldn't. "Don't worry about it, Lovino. I  _am_ deeply sorry about the pain I've caused your brother tonight-"

_Is it worth giving up one thing for the other?_

"Wait," I blurted.

Germany stopped.

He had no reason to do it, after the way I'd behaved to him tonight (I'll admit it) but he stopped, and he waited.

"I get what you're saying," I said, stupidly. "About… the job in Africa, and being your own person- I get it. I-" I was trying to say  _I'm sorry,_ but I couldn't force the words to come out of my mouth- "I get it," I repeated, "and I get why you have to take this job."

"Ah." Germany looked at me, doubtful, the walls already beginning to rise up around us again. "I… I'm glad. So you see the necessity of-"

"But," I said, cutting him off- fuck manners, it's 11:35 at night- "you still made my brother cry."

Germany's face sank. "Lovino, I told you," he snapped, "I-"

"Look." Cut him off again. "Your relationship with Feli is your business. I get that, now, too," I said, eyes narrowing, back on the offense all of a sudden. "If you two decide to break up, if you both think that a long-distance relationship isn't worth having, I'll accept that. Hell, I'll even promise to take care of Feli after the breakup- you know I will."

"But  _this-"_ I jerked my chin towards the house, "is not okay. The asshole older brother draws the line here. You can't just walk away before he's had his chance to tell his side. And I know Feli better than you do, and this is me telling you- as Feli's brother, you understand- that what he has to say is probably different to what you think he's going to say."

Germany looked like I'd just socked a bowling ball through his gut.

"Part of being your own person, and the most important part of leaving your mark on the world," I said, "is all about the people who love you. And goddamn it all, Beilschmidt, even you, even you- I can't let you do this- even though part of me wants to let you fuck this all up, I'll admit it. Hah."

Germany didn't laugh. He was staring at me like I'd just dropped from another planet. Which was reasonable, given that by now I was usually delving into the side of cursewords that involves things like "shitfaced lump of minced bullcock I'm going to hurl this laptop computer so far up your ass that you're going to be vomiting shit and motherfucking binary code for the next ten years and NOBODY WILL EVEN NOTICE THE DIFFERENCE".

And now I was solving his damn relationship problems for him. He didn't seem to know where to look.

"So you're going to go back inside that house," I helpfully directed him towards aforementioned house with my finger, "and fix things with Feli before you go. And when you come back out, you're going to thank me for going to the fucking trouble even though you're not worth the Italian ground you're blocking the light off."

Germany didn't move.

"GO!" I yelled, my patience shot, and ran forward and gave him a good shove in the ass. He jumped as if he'd been scalded and bolted towards the house.

I spent a good thirty seconds wiping my hands on my pants -  _I touched the potato bastard witH MY HANDS -_ before heading over to the front step and sitting down on it. I pulled out my phone and turned it back on.

_87 unread messages from: Antonio Fernandez Carriedo_

Ah, yes.

Spain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> usually my AN for AO3 and FFN is exactly the same, but this time i'm leaving out a big chunk of drama jsyk
> 
> i'm curious to see what you guys think about germany's decision. i hear there is some fantastic science going on in some african countries and i feel like germany would totally want to be a part of that.
> 
> thanks for reading askahfjkd im really messed up and all over the place lately thanks for putting up with me /n\


	20. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 20: Romano  
> It's About Fucking Time This Story Got A Bit More Cheerful

Okay, so call me insensitive and wallop me 'round the head with a sack full of dead fish, but the first thing I thought when I saw my screen was, "How the hell did he manage to send  _eighty-seven_ messages to this phone in so short a period of time?"

And then I saw the time display and realized I'd spoken with Germany for over fifteen minutes.

As if to add insult to injury, my achingly overdramatic dialogue with the Blonde Beilschmidt Bludgeon had taken place at a time dangerously approaching midnight. Talking to Germany. About life, the universe, and everything. At midnight. You might as well just chuck in a full moon, a coupla girls in skimpy black dresses, and some kind of ambiguous gleaming weapon- boom, trashy YA lit novel from the grocery store's checkout line shelves.

Forget the dead fish, just murder me now, please.

I hesitated, then opened the most recent message from Spain. Well- to be more accurate- I  _tried_ to. My thumb was shaking so hard I couldn't swipe. Actually, my whole hand was shaking. I wasn't nervous or anything, though- totally wasn't playing back blurry memories of me bREAKING UP WITH SPAIN and then rUNNING AWAY inside my head, nope nope- it was just an involuntary response, I guess. Stress and all that.

I stared at my shaking thumb for a long time. My phone beeped. Eighty-eight messages. It got very quiet in my head, because the more those words repeated themselves- let's break up let's break up let's break up - the more meaningless they felt. Let's break up. Ltes brkea pu. Lrekrj kdjshs nwioe.

Nonsense.

From inside the house, I heard Veneziano's voice pipe up briefly, sounding distressed, and then Germany's lower murmur. The sound of them speaking was oddly comforting- my brother and his idiot boyfriend were having a stupid conversation, how could the world be ending at the same time as  _that? -_ and as I kept staring down at my hand, gradually the tremors stilled.

I breathed. Then I opened the most recent message from Spain. For real, that time.

 **Antonio:** You don't get to make these kinds of decisions by yourself!

 **Antonio:** Please just talk to me! I know you're upset but we can fix this right?

 **Antonio:** Turn your phone On!

Oh. That last one.

It was a bad idea. It was a terrible idea. I shouldn't do it.

I REALLY SHOULDN'T DO IT.

 **Lovino:** If someone's phone is off, texting them to turn their phone on is useless, bastard!

I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW you DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME. I'm a terrible person.

Honestly, though, do you even pass up an opportunity like that? Even if it's with your ex-boyfriend of a half hour ago who just sent you 88 texts in opposition to your reckless and single-sided breakup?

I expected Spain to text me back right away, but I guess my reply was really not what he was prepared to answer (I can't blame him, there) because it took him a good two minutes to text again. Which was bad, because apparently two minutes is ample time for your brain to decide that  _Deliberate Memory Suppression_  Time is now over, and  _Involuntary Bombardment Of Your Tender Bruised Ego By Memories In Which You Were A Fucking Idiot_  Time is going to begin, complete with confetti and screaming trumpets.

For instance:

" _The asshole older brother draws the line here," Lovino Vargas snaps in the third person, spittle flying out of his mouth in the way that's gross and not intimidating. "You can't just walk away before he's had his chance to tell his side."_

I'd just given that advice to Germany. But back at the dance hall, I had  _been_ Germany. I'd done exactly the same thing to Spain that Germany'd done to Veneziano. And there hadn't been a helpful asshole older brother around to knock some sense back into me.

Oh, God. Oh my God, I was a galloping hypocrite with as much skill at self-evaluation as Francis Bonnefoy had in matters of the heart, with a swollen ego to match. Yeah, Spain had sounded like he wanted to fix things, but had I cut something that would never grow back together, no matter how much we tried? Did I even have the guts to go back to him and say I'd been wrong? Was this going to keep on happening - were Spain and I going to become one of those on-and-off couples, who always swore they were going to end it this time around but never did, stuck in an endless dark vortex of pitiable self-hate, codependency, and disgustingly angst-laden Meaningful Sex?

Most importantly, for me and my ego, was it all going to be  _my fault_?

Ohhhhh, no.

Feverishly, I scrolled back through the remaining eighty-five messages.

 **Antonio:** Where are you

 **Antonio:** PLEASE you can't just DO THIS

 **Antonio:** It's not my fault I'm sorry my politicians !

 **Antonio:** Did something happen?

I read through every single message, a rolling gigantic lump growing in my chest with every message I scrolled through. Spain sounded so confused. I wanted to skip to the end and write, "IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT IT'S MINE AND I'M A GIGANTIC HYPOCRITE WHO DOESN'T FUCKING DESERVE YOU AND I'M SORRY" and send it as fast as I could and then send it another five times to make sure it got there and Spain fucking read every word, but I didn't.

I read every message, and then I sat there staring at the screen, back near the top of the long stack.

 **Antonio:** We HAVE to work this out TOGETHER. It's not fair otherwise and you know it and I don't really think you want this either so PLEASE let's work this out call me!

 **Antonio:** Call me!

 _Who the hell does he believe he is,_ I found myself thinking bitterly,  _assuming that he knows what I think?_ The worst part was that I couldn't even get properly angry about it, because he was  _right._  I didn't really want this. I  _really didn't_ want this. I  _wanted_ to work this out together with Spain.

But I didn't know how. I didn't know how to start that conversation. And I didn't know how to cope by getting so angry I couldn't feel sad, because the anger wasn't coming like it usually did, and suddenly everything I remembered myself doing, in the past, when Spain and I had argued about something personal- it just seemed so immature and petty. Every time Spain had offered me a chance to improve, instead of taking that chance, I'd blocked him out. And now, another time everything was hinging on me, I had no idea how to do it, because I'd never practiced it before.

I clutched the phone tightly, hoping that the right words would rise up out of the fizzling slew of shit that was my brain plus wine at midnight. The right words (fucking surprise) didn't appear. And Spain still wasn't replying.

So I just typed in what I felt, hoped it would be enough, and sent it.

 **Lovino:** I'm sorry

And then I found I couldn't stop, because it was so fucking  _easy,_ just saying everything I felt, not having to make anything up or word anything right. It was like I was reading off of a script.

 **Lovino:** This is my fault

 **Lovino:** And I do want to fix this.

 **Lovino:** I do want to fix this!

 **Lovino:** I'm just a fucking mess and Beilschmidt is an ass

 **Lovino:** And Feli was crying and I don't know if I did the right thing but I understand, I think

 **Lovino:** Can we just pretend this didn't happen

 **Lovino:** Fuck! You sent me 87 fucking messages, now answer me!

In the next few seconds, a text popped up.

 **Antonio:** I'm sorry!

Typical. I almost screamed. It was like the balloon of anger-stress-frustration-sadness-unhappiness inside my chest simultaneously burst and inflated even bigger at the same time. My fingers were slipping with sweat on the screen as I typed.

 **Lovino:** It is not your fault!

 **Antonio:** It is!

 **Lovino:** Stop!

Lord, now we were just screeching at each other.

 **Antonio:** Ok ok

 **Antonio:** Thank you so much for texting back

 **Antonio:** We can get through this together!

What was I supposed to say?

 **Lovino:** I don't want to break up with you

 **Antonio:** I don't want to break up with you either!

 **Lovino:** Good, so we aren't breaking up!

 **Antonio:** Yes!

Even as a lot of the tension drained out of me, I felt anxiety bubbling in my chest. Was it supposed to go like this? Was it supposed to be that easy? Were we supposed to talk through what happened? What was there to talk about?

I'd done something bad, something that had caused Spain distress. If I'd been him, I would be furious right now. Even if what I wanted and he wanted were the same thing - to make our relationship work - I'd never just forgive him like that.

 **Lovino:** But that's not the only problem

 **Antonio:** What do you mean?

 **Antonio:** I'm really happy that we aren't break up!

 **Antonio:** I really want to see you

_I really want to see you, too. I really want to see you. I want you to wrap me in your arms and spin me around and become part of me so even if I do go temporarily crazy like that again, I won't be able to lose you, ever. I really want to see you- but-_

_This isn't right-_

**Lovino:** I fucked up today!

 **Lovino:** And you're just going to forgive me? You shouldn't be happy! You shouldn't forgive me! I don't deserve it!

 **Lovino:** Fuck you

O _kay_ , so I hadn't really meant for that to sound so confrontational. Did it count as not-rude if the person I was insulting was myself? Aaaaah quick fix it fix it-

 **Lovino:** I just mean that I feel really bad about this

Better, better...

 **Lovino:** And I feel uncomfortable that you forgive me so easily.

 **Lovino:** I think we should talk about what happened tonight

A pause.  _Oh God, did I say the wrong thing? Is he offended now -_

 **Antonio:** I don't really get it

 **Antonio:** I'm not mad, ok? I don't understand why you think I should be angry at you because obviously neither of us want that

 **Antonio:** But I want both of us to be happy with whatever we decide so if you have something to say I will listen!

How could I tell him that the nicer he was to me, the crummier I felt inside? How could I tell him about how guilty I felt, and how it needed to be burned away, about the need I had to make this truly right with him? For the thousandth time, I wondered why all people couldn't just be the way Spain was being right now- as long as everyone's happy, it doesn't matter, right? I'm not mad, so I'll just forgive you so we can go back to being happy-

But that didn't work for me, it seemed. And there had been something wrong tonight- something in the back of my mind, something that even I couldn't quite see - brushed aside by the drama with Germany, but it was still there and I wanted to work through it.

 **Antonio:** Wait but we're definitely not breaking up, yes?

 **Lovino:** NO NO

 **Lovino:** it's NOT that

 **Antonio:** OKAY GOOD !

I sighed, kicking my feet back- the stone of the front porch step was starting to dig uncomfortably into my ass, but I couldn't move. I felt drained of all energy. Twenty minutes ago, I'd been leaping in front of cars to save the day. Had that really been me?

 **Lovino:** I think I've just been really stressed lately, that's why I freaked out at the dance. Everything's been different bc we're in a romantic relationship now and I feel like it's making so many problems for us, but I don't just want to give up and

 **Lovino:** trying to break up with you was a really bad idea and I don't want that.

My heart was, illogically, pounding. I'd had to do far worse things than this in my day, but there was something about emotional heart-to-heart conversations that grated on my nerves like nothing else.

 **Lovino:** The problem is that I keep getting upset over things that don't really matter, bc it's covering up bigger issues that DO matter in our relationship, but I don't know what they are.

 **Lovino:** When I agreed to date you and you gave me all those letters, I agreed to be your lover because I thought I knew it was going to be difficult. Now I really know how FUCKING difficult it is and I still want to do it.

 **Lovino:** I know you think that life is fucking perfect and our relationship has no problems, but I'm not like that. But, I do want to keep trying. To be better, first we have to recognize the things that need to be fixed, so I'm saying that you shouldn't forgive me yet for doing something that hurt you. I fucking hurt you! It's

 **Lovino:** something that's okay if you're pissed off about it!

I had had more to say, but that was the extent it would go into words. My nose hurt, and I pinched the bridge of it, staring down at the screen. It took a few seconds for Spain's first reply to ping in.

 **Antonio:** Don't blame yourself for all of this It's been me too. We've both been stressed and both done each other many wrongs

 **Antonio:** I so wish i could have made it easy for you to love me, but I guess that's not the case

 **Antonio:** I can't say it doesn't matter, because that would be a lie. I don't think that life is perfect and I know our relationship has problems and it saddens me. I thought that keeping a happy attitude would make less problems, but now I see that i caused you to believe that I didn't see you hurting

 **Antonio:** and I'm sorry for that, and I acknowledge your pain

I couldn't breathe.

 **Antonio:** What I can say is that the difficulty of the relationship doesn't matter to how much I love you. I'll love you no matter what, even if you cause me pain. I know there are many things I cause you to worry about but I don't want love to be one of them

It felt like something huge was melting away from my shoulders, slipping down my back like ice slides down warm skin. There was a pulsing thing inside my ribcage, just above my diaphragm, and it was burning me up inside, pushing up through my chest and into my throat. It hung there, constricting my breathing.

 **Antonio:** We are in this together because we care about each other

 **Antonio:** I hope?

You never realize how physical emotions are until they grab your body and make you dance. Every part of me was reacting to those words, shining in the vast miles of road between me and Spain, connecting us again. The empty space of my mind began to solidify again, with this newness of Spain's as its center, a ground for me to stand upon.

 **Lovino:** Yes

 **Antonio:** And we'll be better because we got through it, instead of giving up!

 **Antonio:** So let's take this one step at a time and no more talk of breaking up, okay?

_I really want to see you._

How could he be so kind, after all that had happened tonight? Hell, I'd even yelled at him, just now, to  _be_ mad at me, and he'd just kept being steady and lovely and good, like he knew how much I needed this right now, even though I didn't deserve it. I wondered if I should call him, thought maybe I'd hear in his voice the inflictions I couldn't decipher from his texting.

How could I know how he felt about this? Was it just me that was desperate for him to- punish me, somehow, to make me work for his forgiveness, so that I could be absolved of guilt?

Maybe this was a pain that would fade with time, time and seeing his smile back on his face again, maybe even being the one to put it there.

Maybe it was time to take a leaf out of Spain's book. He'd been in the right, even though he wouldn't outright admit it, and I'd been in the wrong. For the past few months, he'd dealt in happiness, while I'd dealt in misery.

I could turn that around. Maybe.

 **Lovino:** Yeah, it's a deal

The text sent, and I could feel the corners of my mouth finally tugging up; it felt as though my face had permanently set into a scowl, the few hours I'd been away from Spain. The heavy ache of guilt lifted just a little.

Quickly, before Spain could type a response, I bent over my phone again and texted him again.

 **Lovino:** I love you. I'm sorry.

A pause, and then a ping, quicker than I'd thought it would be, almost as if Spain had been waiting for me to say it so he could say it back-

 **Antonio:** I love you too.

I waited for the "I'm sorry", the "oh Lovi it's not your fault", waited for Spain to put himself down yet again, like a spear of pure fucking guilt through my heart, and I had this screaming moment of  _who the fuck up there in Heaven put me in charge of a person's heart oh my GOD-_

-and the text didn't come. It didn't come after ten seconds, or thirty seconds, or a minute. Just those words - I love you too - and the silence that came after spoke and spoke and spoke.

Crying never felt so good. Being in the wrong never felt so good, ever.

* * *

It was one AM in the morning when the door to our house opened and Germany stepped out. He didn't look surprised when he saw me there on the steps, just staring out at the street.

"Lovino," he greeted.

"I won't ask how it went," I said, before he could say anything else, holding up a hand in deference as I turned to face him. His face was drawn, in the pale light of the streetlamps, but it was a different kind of exhaustion than the tense tiredness he'd worn when he'd gone in- this was the expression of somebody who'd gotten just a touch of the rest he'd longed for, and it tempered his whole face. He almost looked …. _likable._

_Almost._

It was even better when he smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth soft, and said, "It went well."

"What did I tell you," I said confidently, swinging one leg up so I could face him. He sank down onto the steps next to me, a casual gesture neither of us would ever have allowed if not given the current, and very specific, situation. "I was right again, and you were wrong. Again. Gee, Beilschmidt, why am I not surprised?"

Germany turned to me, his gaze serious, seeming nervous all of a sudden.  _Don't worry,_ I thought wryly,  _I'm all out of assholery for the night, you needn't stress._ I didn't say it out loud, though; it's always good to cultivate your aura of threat and intimidation whenever there's an opportunity. But maybe I did make my expression a bit more inviting, waiting for him to speak, the two of us there in the pale night's lighting.

What of it?

"Thank you," he said, and I bit my tongue on  _It wasn't for you, it was for Feli,_ as he went on, awkward but sincere. "I know we have… not always gotten along well… and much of that has been my own fault. I misjudged you and never made any attempt to know you beyond the surface of our relationship."

I couldn't believe he was blaming himself for that, when it'd been me who had taken both an instant dislike and a nasty swing at him from pretty much the moment we'd met. But Germany was obviously making an Awkward Informal Speech here, and you didn't interrupt a guy giving an Awkward Informal Speech, even if he  _was_ my Forever Potatoes Archenemy Everlasting, so I bit my tongue.

"As a matter of fact, you have played an integral role in my relationship with Feliciano, which is one of the most important things in my life," said Germany. "If not for your actions tonight, I believe I may have severely damaged said relationship."

 _You believe? Believe?_ But I would give him that one- I understood what he was trying to say, and for once I was willing to  _not_ pretend that I didn't get the message he was trying - in his own, roundabout way - to send.  _I would have fucked up badly if it wasn't for you._

I could accept that.

"I have been under enormous pressure lately, and have not really been myself. Your well-chosen words tonight helped remind me of what is truly important to me, even if your delivery … perhaps leaves something to be desired," said Germany.

I… could accept that, too.  _Only_  because of what he said next.

"I believe that my relationship with Feliciano could be long-term- I dislike the word  _forever,_ but suffice it to say that I would consider him as my life partner, for lack of a better term." Germany was exceptionally tense; I wanted to reach out and pat his arm. He was making me nervous. "As I believe you must be aware, inter-national relationships can be both difficult and hard to define-"

 _oh hell yes was I ever fucking aware of_ that

"-but my recent conversation with Feliciano, and my own awareness of the depth of the feeling we share together-" The guy looked like every blood vessel in his face was bursting. My nails were digging into my palms from the sheer awkwardness of it. If you think I'm using the word  _awkward_ too much, obviously you don't understand the image I'm trying to convey here, but nevermind- "has led me to see that whatever else may change in our relationship, we will always share a bond. That, I can depend upon."

Okay. Awkward, but profound.

"So I would consider him my family. And… by extension, I would also consider you part of my family."

I choked on my own spit.

Hack. Cough. I was bent over double, spraying spit into my hands. My lungs were burning. Germany struggled on with his speech, as if ignoring me would make anything better.

"However, I don't mean that just by extension," he said. "You have proven yourself to be an integral member of this... family unit, or whatever you may choose to think it as, in your own right and not just as the sibling of Feliciano. We would be an infinitely poorer team without you."

What.  _What._

"A relationship does not just affect two people. No bond between persons is completely isolated. In our dynamic, you play an important role, and I would like for us to work at forming a better… family."

_Family._

"We accept you as a person we need, you and nobody else, to complete that family," said Germany.

There was something tingling on my skin, worming its way through layers of fat and muscle and into my bloodstream, sending a sparkling feeling through my arteries. There was a sudden lightness to all my limbs. If I'd tried to move, I couldn't have.

Germany was accepting me. I'd always been shitty to him. Hell, a part of me still hated him, and I'm sure he knew that when he was opening himself up. He must have known that there was a huge chance I'd just chuck something heavy at him and run away as fast as my legs would carry me. And it wasn't just him; Veneziano, too, was opening this precious bond he shared with this other person, letting me in the house they'd built even if they knew I'd just track mud all over the welcome mat.

For the longest time, they'd viewed me as an agent of destruction to their shared happiness, and I'd viewed them as a highly undesirable happenstance that I'd have to wait out, the same way you wait for a pile of moldy dishes in the sink to magically get less moldy as the days go by. Could that change, now, as slowly and roughly as my relationship with Spain was shifting and evolving? Would it make all of us happier, or would it turn out we were better off with our comfortable hatred?

A  _family._ I was part of a family. I was important, needed,  _wanted -_  a part of something lovely and essential.

I opened my mouth.

"Did Feli tell you to say all that?" I blurted.

Oh, come on. It's so obvious I could cringe.

Germany broke into a sheepish smile, this time one that spread across his whole face. It was strange, seeing that smile directed at me, with nobody else around. Strange, but not… utterly detestable.

"He did," he admitted. "Nevertheless, the sentiment is most sincere coming from both of us. What do you say, Lovino? Can you accept this arrangement? I know tonight you've assisted in my reconciliation with Veneziano, but in the past you've been opposed to our relationship, and - I don't wish to trample on your opinions."

I tilted my head, watching him out of the corner of my eye as I pretended to seriously consider it.

"I suppose," I drawled, finally, "I  _could_  work on chipping away a bit of the gigantic store of hatred specifically reserved for you that I carry inside me," I glanced back at the door, and then at Germany's hopeful face, "for Feli's sake."

It looked like I was going to have to get used to those wide smiles from Germany, because the smallest of acquiescences there triggered another one.

It was all just about enough to give you a fucking cavity.

"Now go," I added abruptly, standing up and gesturing towards his waiting car, "it's way too late, and I'm sick of seeing your damn mopey mug at this hour of the morning."

"Stay safe, Lovino," said Germany, starting down the steps, which seemed like an odd thing to say in this situation, and suddenly I realized I'd never asked him what he intended to do about the job. It was too late now; he was getting into his car, driving away. I watched him turn the corner, lost from view.

He'd left the door to our house open just a crack. Golden light was flooding out from under it. Cautiously, I opened the door, and I know what I said before about not really staying at this place a lot but let me tell you, stepping into the warmth of the hallway from the brisk night felt like coming home. Not because of any fondness I had for the house in particular, but because I knew my brother was waiting for me in the kitchen.

Or maybe he wasn't waiting.  _Maybe_  my fucking brother was a gigantic rude hyperactive asshole who came running down the hall and tackled me in a gigantic hug and maybe we both went flying right back out the door and landed in the bushes.

And maybe he wasn't the only one laughing. Or crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS. this chapter and the previous are probably my favorite scenes in this entire fic.
> 
> hope you enjoyed /v/ sorry for the longer-than-usual wait. thanks, as always, for reading.


	21. Romano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 21: Romano  
> Spain and I Have A Falling-Over-Chairs Type Of Relationship

Okay. So it turns out that Germany  _was_ leaving for his job.

And Veneziano  _was_ torn up about it, so much so that he was bawling again even before I had the bread chopped for the tomato soup.

But, this time, I knew that the tears had to come. There's only so much an asshole older brother can do, after all, and messing up others' lives for the sake of one person that he cares about just isn't on. Not to mention the fact that maybe - someday in the far, far, obliteratingly far future,  _Germany_ would also be a person.

I.

Cared about.

Askjhaskfshdkfh. It was all  _his_ fault. Fucking hell, I had no idea what he'd done to me to get me  _not_  to attack him with a long, blunt object, but the bastard was obviously way more cunning and underhanded than I'd given him credit for. Those smiles…!

The worst part was that I couldn't even bring myself to  _mind_ that much.

So I contented myself with murmuring vaguely- just vaguely- insulting things about Tater Tot the Terror as I ladled hot soup into Veneziano's bowl.

It did make sense. I had to admit it. Germany wanted to make a difference, and he'd chosen to do it in a way that differed from the way I always imagined making a difference in the world, and that… that was fine. It was sad for Veneziano, and a right pain in the goddamn ass for me, but in the end we'd both just have to accept that nations lived long lives and couldn't always stay at home doing the same old things. And that if we ever wanted to form lasting relationships with each other, we'd need to find a way to foster that bond no matter what ephemeral human circumstances came between us.

Well, I'd already accepted it. It was Veneziano that apparently needed some help with that.

"He promised we wouldn't drop out of touch," he lamented, as I sat down at the table and began spooning soup into my mouth, "but what if he forgets about me?"

I glanced towards the door, thinking of Germany's soft smile on the front porch, the way his eyes had drifted out of focus for a second as he'd talked about families and bond and history.

"He won't forget about you, dumbass," I said, lamely, knowing I didn't sound convincing. Veneziano seemed grateful anyway, or at least I assumed he was, since he lurched across the table to grab my hand and look at me with those puffy, shimmering eyes. "How are you guys even going to communicate, anyway? Emails?"

"Letters," said Veneziano, letting go of my hand to gulp soup from his bowl like he was downing a shot of hard whisky.

"Well, that's fine, then," I said, lifting my voice awkwardly in an attempt to be encouraging. "You can be all old-fashioned, like a romance novel or some shit, eh?"

"But Lovi, I don't  _want_ us to be like a romance novel!" wailed Veneziano, grabbing my hand in his again and sniffling over it like it was a dying bird. "Everything's going to be  _different_ now, and I'll be  _alone,_ and that's the most terrible fate, don't you think?"

"Death is the most terrible fate," I said flatly, extricating my hand and placing Veneziano's cautiously back next to his soup bowl. "Loneliness never lasts forever."

"You think so?" Veneziano asked, somewhat hopefully.

"Yeah, of course!" I said, patting his limp hand and dragging my numb face up into a sort of smile-grimace. "I'm here, aren't I? Your own brother is better than some stupid lover, right?"

Veneziano didn't reply for a second, and I bit my lip, suddenly coming back to myself. What was I saying? It wasn't even as though family relations were such a big deal when it came to the nations- after you've known these people for so long, been forced to fight against them, even, at times for years and years, the lines defining various relationships get blurred. Now, I was just putting extra pressure on Veneziano to be grateful to me for being a really bad sibling all these years, wasn't I? The last thing I wanted him to do was feel forced to lie to me to try and make  _me_ feel better, when it was me that should be supporting  _him._

Then again, maybe he'd just taken it as a rhetorical question. I hoped I hadn't offended him- there'd been enough waterworks tonight. Stirring my soup, I kept my eyes down, feverishly searching around for something else to say, before the silence became too awkward. Why wasn't he saying anything? Was I supposed to say something? But it was too late to take it back now without being weird- or was it?

 _Why_  did conversations have to fucking  _exist_?

I huffed out loud, frustrated with my own whirling train of thought, and reached across the table for the half-empty bottle of wine the same instant Veneziano practically  _screamed,_ "You're  _right, Lovi!"_ My fingers slipped on the neck of the bottle and it flew out of my grasp, clattering onto the table and sending wine everywhere. I shrieked and tossed my bowl of soup onto the floor.

Veneziano didn't even notice.

"You're right!" he declared again, as wine dripped slowly onto the floor and I stared at him with wide eyes. I'd pushed my chair away from the table, involuntarily, and without realizing it I was gripping the edges of my chair with both my hands. I couldn't help it. He just looked so…  _dramatic,_ with his hair all messy and tearstains on his face and that weird light in his eyes that he gets sometimes. I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to laugh or scream.

"...Right about what?" I asked, finally, when we hadn't done anything but stare at each other for a few more seconds. "What the fuck, Feli? What the  _fuck-"_

"I  _do_ have you!" said Veneziano, excitedly, like he was sharing some great revelation with me. I glanced down at my fingers, white-knuckled on the chair edge, and loosened my grip a bit. Yep, Lovino Vargas was definitely here, in the flesh, uncomfortably damp with wine. Your point, Veneziano?

"And… and…!" Suddenly, Veneziano seemed to snap out of it; he looked down at me from his standing position as if seeing me for the first time. "And I guess that's all… you've always been around, huh. Sorry, Lovi." He sat back down, a little subdued, and put his elbows on the table. One of his sleeves started to soak up wine.

"Wait. What? What do you mean?" I reached over and yanked his sleeve roughly out of the puddle, making him look up. For the first time in a while, I realized that Veneziano was genuinely not even thinking about cleaning up the mess; his eyes were distant, as if he was coming to some kind of resolution. I grabbed a wad of paper towels and haphazardly mopped up (most of) the wine, watching his face.

"You just seem a lot more…  _present,"_ Veneziano finally said, pronouncing the word empathetically, "tonight. Than usual? It's like you're really here, and all those other times before, you… weren't? Does that make sense?"

I slanted my eyes towards the empty wine bottle. "No. But go on."

Veneziano looked surprised, as he always seemed to whenever I told him to  _go on, I'm listening._ Did I really shut him down  _that_ often? Maybe I did. I tracked back through my memory, but couldn't seem to pin down any specific conversations I'd had with him the past few weeks that were significant. Everything inside my head was blurry. I shook myself out of it and refocused on Veneziano.

"I just didn't think you'd do so much for me," whispered Veneziano, staring down at his own soup bowl. "About, you know… Ludwig. I know… I mean, I know you never  _really_ hated him-"

"You're wrong, Feli," I put in, steadily, and he didn't contradict me.

"-well, but I never thought you'd do all that, when it all involved a person you … disliked so much. For me, I guess. Was it for me?" Veneziano looked up, finally, searching my face.

"It was for you," I said. What else would it have been for? Germany's happiness? Spain's approval? My own sense of peace and inner sanctity? Ha, like I was that much of a selfless person. I did it for my brother, my partner, who I didn't want to see unhappy, who I maybe wanted to see test his boundaries with Asshole Number One a  _little_ bit more but not in the way that meant being stranded on different continents with no communication for who knows how many years until all semblance of a salvageable romantic relationship was limp and deceased. Fuck all that about doing kind deeds out of the goodness of your heart; I wasn't even sure the deed I'd done would play out to be a truly kind deed in the end.

But the way Veneziano's eyes lit up when I said it, that made me just a bit more certain that it had been.

"And I guess that made me really notice, that Germany and I weren't the only people in my world, you know? You're here, too. And I forgot how important you were to me, Lovino." Somehow, Veneziano was managing to look up at me with earnest eyes, despite the fact that he'd surpassed me in height centuries ago. "I really want to fix our relationship."

Despite myself, I winced. I can't say it didn't hurt, being told that our relationship needed "fixing", that Veneziano had "forgotten" how much I meant to him, even if I was touched that he wanted us to do better. But I deserved it, I know I did. One time, putting Germany and Veneziano ahead of myself, acting on impulse- no way was one flashy, heroic act supposed to fix all our problems. That only happens in movies.

And Veneziano wasn't going to be the steady rock of a sibling that I'd be able to hold onto and rely on and dump all my shit on, either. He had his own life, and his own problems, and neither of them revolved around me alone. I'd never seen him as  _weak,_ per se- we all have different ways of expressing our emotions - but he was never going to be endlessly strong, either. Just because he was more optimistic than me didn't mean he wasn't susceptible to sadness and heartbreak.

I mean. Not that I thought we were doomed, or that either of us was a toxic wreck of a brother who was sabotaging the other's social network.

"That came out too dramatic, didn't it," said Veneziano, like he was having the same thought just then, and we both laughed. The air cleared a bit. "I just mean… I want to feel closer to you, Lovi, like we did before. I want to try and help you with your problems, and not just be North and South Italy and work on politics together sometimes."

He gave me a hesitant smile. "I know you're having problems too- I can see it on your face- and maybe you don't want to talk about it, but maybe you do and you just didn't think I'd listen, or be interested, or that I had my own problems, or that I'd just give you bad advice. And when I had problems and wanted to talk to you but didn't, it just ended up hurting me. And that's stupid, right? Because we can choose to be here for each other."

"Right," I managed. My throat was clogging up, no idea why; maybe I was coming down with a cold. "Be there for each other."

"Let's try it," said Veneziano, hopefully. "Lovi? Can we?"

"Right," I croaked, again.

Damn cold virus.

* * *

"And you'll help me write letters to Germany, too, Lovi? Because you know he admires you so much and I'm sure he'd want to hear from you and PLEASE DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT I'M SORRY-"

* * *

_Beilschmidt,_

_Feli told me to write this stupid fucking letter, so I'm writing it, but don't think for a second that this means ANYTHING other than Feli being weirdly persuasive about the weirdest things (which I'm sure you know all about, am I right? Ha) so there. Still don't give a fuck about you and our so-called "family relationship", just so you know._

_Letters are so fucking old fashioned. Just like you. So I guess it fits! Seriously, though, my hand's getting a cramp from writing all these words. May have to do with the fact that I spent yesterday playing tennis with Feli, and he kept slamming the fucking ball down over the net like death itself._

_-Lovino Vargas_

"As a device to ensure the communication of relatively good intentions, it falls a bit short," said Spain.

"Shut up." I snatched the piece of paper back from him, scowling. "You wouldn't know good writing if it punched you in the face,  _Spagna."_

"Maybe not," Spain said, not seeming particularly perturbed at these words. He leaned back on the couch, giving me an easy smile. "But I can tell when something was written using long and convoluted stores of inner resentment from deep inside a person's soul."

I shot him a sideways glare, crumpling the letter attempt in my fist. " _You're_ in a good mood today."

"Aw, Lovi!" The smile on Spain's face stretched into a delighted grin. "How can you tell?"

"Because you're being a huge stupid asshole." I rolled my eyes, tossing the ball of paper over my shoulder onto the floor. Spain tipped his head to the side, his eyes soft, but he didn't offer a reprise. Suddenly unwilling to meet such a tender gaze, I dropped my gaze to the floor and tried to figure out how to properly position my facial features.

"You're blushing," observed Spain, after a minute. He said it the way he'd point out an unexpected flower on the side of the road.

Well, yes. It was three days after the Dance Fiasco, and all of a sudden being in Spain's presence felt - warmer, more overwhelming - even though all we'd done was meet in his kitchen and kiss a few times, under the pretense of "talking things over in person". I kept waiting for Spain to be angry at me- that, at least, was a reaction I'd know what to do with - but all he was giving me was the kind of smiles that most people reserve for when the sun comes down from the sky and hangs herself upon their ceiling.

A few more moments passed by. Spain got up from the couch- moving so easily, like his body weighed nothing, how did he  _do_ that and apparently even when I'm in a state of mild mental breakdown over the sheer complexity of human relationships part of my mind can STILL find time to obsess over the way he freaking  _moves_  - and put a steady hand on my shoulder.

_Pull yourself together._

I gave him a weak smile and shrugged him off, drawing out a chair at the table and plopping myself into it.

"So. Did you actually want to talk things out, or was that some kind of code phrase for " _let's make out over your kitchen counter"?_ " It was a feeble attempt to lighten the suddenly-heavier topic, and we both knew it, but Spain accepted it anyway.

"Either is good, of course," he said, sliding into the chair opposite and giving me that weird shampoo-ad eye flashing thing that he thinks is sexy but actually looks stupid. Still, it made me want to laugh. "I don't care if we don't talk things out, but that kind of thing seems to make you feel better, so I'm happy to do it if it makes things - well -  _easier,_ between us."

I caught my breath. God,  _this_ was why I could never really keep my balance around Spain- he'd go round for weeks making you think he was the most unobservant, carefree person on the planet, and then all of a sudden he'd drop something like  _this_ on you and you'd just be stunned by the fact that someone would  _notice_ something like that, even if it wasn't how  _he_  naturally worked.

Now, if he'd just learn to be a bit more subtle about it, I might actually be able to call him  _romantic._

"I just,"  _want to apologize again,_ but I swallowed that part down, because it would be fucking pathetic to keep throwing myself at Spain's feet after he'd forgiven me, "maybe, instead of talking, we could go… I don't know, do something? Together? And maybe, then…" I glanced away and shrugged, knowing that we both knew the end to that sentence.  _Maybe then things will feel more normal._

"Of course!" Spain said, looking bright again. "I'd like to do something like that with you. Do you want to go out to dinner?"

I let the corners of my mouth push outwards a bit. He was making this so easy - no thanks to me, apparently having woken up today as the most awkward person this side of the Sun. It was nice of Spain to act like this all was no big deal, keeping the atmosphere light, like this was just another day and we had no problems.

Or maybe that was how he really felt? Could I ever really tell?

Aeeughh.

"That sounds nice," I said, "but it better not be like last time, or I swear I'll shove my fist so far up your ass you'll be chewing intestines instead of food."

Spain blinked, then gave a single bark of hysterical laughter and choked. I yelled and stood up, pounding him on the back as he hacked.

"I was wondering how long it would take for you to say something like that," he wheezed. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Lovi! I was getting worried!"

"Idiot!" I shoved back from the table, huffing. "You'll shut your face now if you know what's good for you-!"

Spain could probably tell I wasn't really mad. I wasn't even trying to hide the tiny smirk that pricked at the corners of my mouth. I waited, weight shifted onto one leg, as he took two strides around the table and took my hands in his, so close our noses actually brushed.

"And what if I don't?" he whispered, blinking a little as our eyes met. I focused on the tiny bumps on his nose, then quickly looked back up at his eyes, wondering if I'd gone cross-eyed. He smiled at me, waiting for an answer, but I was content to stand like this for a few more seconds and drink him in.

_Then I'll have to occupy your mouth otherwise, won't I?_

But I didn't say it.

Instead.

"Did you know, Feli and Beilschmidt broke up last week," I said conversationally.

"Mm," Spain said, and kissed me. A second later; " _WHAT?!"_ Spluttering, he pushed me away, looking genuinely surprised for the first time that day.

"You heard me," I said, not bothering to control my full-out grin at that point. I may or may not have sabotaged Veneziano's phone three days ago, just so I'd be the first to share the news with Spain today. "It's all right, though, because I single-handedly helped them get back together, and they're fine now.

Spain's eyes were bugging out of his head. He actually took a step back, staring at me like I'd just sprouted five new heads. "What the HELL-"

"And, by the way, Ludwig's going to go live in Somalia," I said.

Spain took another step backwards and fell over a chair.

So much for romance. But it was worth it.

* * *

And after I'd picked Spain up off the floor, and given him a proper kiss so he'd stop giving me that goggle-eyed look, and after we'd cuddled on the couch for a good half an hour, and after Spain'd fixed dinner and we'd eaten it right there in the kitchen, with tomato sauce still on Spain's apron, and after we'd sifted through old photo albums instead of going out to see the movie that Spain had bought tickets to,

Spain looked up at me from his perch on the couch and extended a hand towards me.

"You could stay the night," he offered, but I shook my head.

"I told Feli I'd stay home with him," I said, which actually was not an excuse, and Spain gave me that keen look that only comes out every once in a while when he's known something for a long time and is just watching you figure it out for yourself.

"Tell him hello from me, and that… I'm happy for him," he said, which seemed cryptic. I snorted.

"What's he got to be happy about? Being rid of Beilschmidt?"

Spain just puffed out a breath of air and smiled. "Good luck writing that letter."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update. i've been away!  
> trying to get back into writing these characters- i'm having a bit of difficulty, sorry if this chapter doesn't really ring true.
> 
> thanks for reading!


	22. Final Author's Note

[copied from the fanfiction.net version of this fic] hi all! It's me, your ever-so-reliable fic author, not. I've finally had a chance to drop in and reread a few of the newer reviews on this fic (which have been lovely and such a balm for my poor writer's soul, so thank you!) after all this time of not updating. while I would be so happy to give anyone who's against the odds still faithfully following/waiting after all this time, some good news, unfortunately when considering my motivation to continue this project I've decided that, while I had big plans to finish this fic last year, I've moved on from it and don't feel like this is the right time to come back, either to this fic or to being active in the APH fandom.

Everyone's been so nice to me & I've enjoyed writing this story for you all so very much! I'm not discounting the possibility to coming back to this someday either, so maybe in the future I will write for you again, and that will surely be so nice!

For those who wanted to know how this story would have ended, I will be happy to tell you the rest of my outline for the plot and how my Toni and Lovino would finally have ended up, so please shoot me a PM at any time! (Even if it's an awkward long time after this final AN was posted, I won't mind tbh)

Thank you for your support❤️ See you again sometime!

**Author's Note:**

> HETALIA (c) HIDEKAZ HIMARUYA  
> update pace: hopefully once a week, but may slow down or speed up. i'm not very regular.


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